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if 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


VOL.   LXV 


The  Bight  of  TTan$latiim  and  Kepro^liKtUm  ii  /ia-ned 


UlCHARD    CLAT    and   SoNS,  LIMITED, 
LONDON  AND  BONGAT. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

African  Trader,  The  Experiences  of  an  ;  by  H.  E.  M.  Stutfield 110 

Beautiful  and  the  True,  The  ;  by  Mark  Reid 266 

Cobbett,  William  ;  by  George  Saintsbury , 95 

Cowper's  Letters  ;  by  J.  C.  Bailey 65 

Curious  Discovery,  A  ;  by  Horace  Hutchinson 57 

Don  Orsino  ;  by  F.  Marion  Crawford. 

Chapters       I.— iii 161 

„            IV.— -VI 241 

,,          VII. — VIII 329 

„            IX.— X 401 

Finland  ;  by  E.  A.  Freeman •    •    • 321 

First  Family  of  Tasajara,  A  ;  by  Bret  Harte. 

Chapters    ix. — x 1 

„          XI. — XIII. — Conclusion 81 

Flight  from  the  Fields,  The  ;  by  Arthur  Gayb 293 

Flower  of  Forgiveness,  The • 33 

Footstep  of  Death,  The 438 

Four  Students,  The  ;  by  C.  F.  Keary 226 

Gerschni  Alp,  Up  the 365 

Good  Word  for  the  Sparrow,  A  ;  by  J.  C.  Atkinson 457 

Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  The 130 

Hamlet  and  the  Modern  Stage  ;  by  Mowbray  Morris 356 

Hampton  Court 446 

Harvest 204 

Henry,  Patrick  ;  by  A.  G.  Bradley 346 

Horace 423 

Hours  of  Labour  ;  by  the  Rev.  Harry  Jones 367 

Hungry  Children  ;  by  H.  Clarence  Bourne 186 

In  Praise  of  Mops 137 

Land  of  Champagne,  In  the  ;  by  Charles  Edwardes         212 

Leaves  from  a  Note-Book 152,  386 


vi  Contents. 


PAOR 


London  Rose,  A  ;  by  Ernest  Rhys 225 

Lord  Beauprey  ;  by  Henry  James.     Part  1 465 

Marvell,  Andrew 194 

Mozart's  Librettist ;  by  Mrs.  Ross 53 

Mrs.  Driffield.     A  Sketch 434 

National  Pensions  ;  by  H.  Clarence  Bourne 312 

Off  the  Azores 42 

Our  First-Born 141 

Our  Military  Unreadiness 275 

Persian  Quatrains,  Three  ;  by  T.  C.  Lewis 52 

Philanthropy  and  the  Poor- Law 76 

Politics  and  Industry  ;  by  Thomas  Whittaker 221 

Rights  of  Free  Labour,  The  ;  by  C.  B.  Roylance  Kent 27 

Romance  and  Youth 285 

Romance  of  Cairo,  A ;  by  the  Very  Rev.  Dean  Butcher 143 

Scarlet  Hunter,  The  ;  by  Gilbert  Parker 376 

Sir  Michael ;  by  Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  Bart 302 

Stranger  in  the  House,  The 394,  475 

Talma;  by  A.  F.  Davidson 15 

Tryphena  and  Tryphosa 121 

Universal  Language,  The  ;  by  C.  R.  Haines 372 

Village  Legacy,  The • 279 

Village  Life  ;  by  the  Rev.  T.  L   Papillon 418 


/ 


MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE. 

VOLUMES  I.  TO  LX7.,  COMPRISING  NUMBERS  1—390, 
Handsomely  Bound  in  Cloth,  price  Is,  6rf.  ea,ch. 

Reading  Cases   for  Monthly   Numbers,   One  Shilling. 
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Sold  by  all  Booksellers  in  Town  and  Country, 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


NOVEMBER,  1891. 


A   FIRST  FAMILY   OF  TASAJARA. 


BY   BRET   HARTE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  wayfarers  on  the  Tasajara  turn- 
pike,   whom    Mr.    Daniel    Harcourt 
passed  with  his  fast  trotting  mare  and 
sulky,    saw   that    their   great    fellow 
townsman    was     more    than    usually 
preoccupied  and  curt   in  his  acknow- 
ledgment of  their  salutations.     Never- 
theless as  he  drew  near  the  creek,  he 
partly  checked  his  horse,  and  when  he 
reached  a  slight  acclivity  of  the  inter- 
minable plain — which  had  really  been 
'the   bank    of    the   creek    in    bygone 
days — he  pulled  up,  alighted,  tied  his 
horse  to  a  rail  fence,  and  clambering 
over   the    enclosure     made    his    way 
along  the  ridge.     It  was  covered  with 
nettles,  thistles,  and  a  few  wiry  dwarf 
larches  of  native  growth ;  dust  from 
the  adjacent  highway  had  invaded  it 
with  a  few  scattered  and  torn  hand- 
bills,  waste   paper,    rags,  empty  pro- 
vision cans,  and  other  suburban  dibris. 
Yet  it  was  the  site  of  Lige  Curtis' s 
cabin,  long  since  erased  and  forgotten. 
The  bed  of  the  old  creek  had  receded  ; 
the  last  tules  had  been  cleared  away ; 
the  channel  and  embarcadero  were  half 
a  mile  from  the  bank  and  log  whereon 
the    pioneer    of    Tasajara    had    idly 
sunned  himself. 

Mr.  Harcourt  walked  on,  oc- 
casionally turning  over  the  scattered 
objects  with  his  foot,  and  stopping  at 
times  to  examine  the  ground  more 
closely.  It  had  not  apparently  been 
disturbed  since  he  himself,  six  years 

No.  385.— VOL.  Lxv. 


ago,  had  razed  the  wretched  shanty 
and  carried  off  its  timbers  to  aid  in  the 
erection  of  a  larger  cabin  further 
inland.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
prospect  before  him — to  the  town  with 
its  steamboats  lying  at  the  wharves, 
to  the  grain  elevator  the  warehouses, 
the  railroad  station  with  its  puffing 
engines,  the  flagstaff  of  Harcourt 
House  and  the  clustering  roofs  of  the 
town,  and  beyond  the  painted  dome  of 
his  last  creation,  the  Free  Library. 
This  was  all  his  work,  his  planning,  hitt 
foresight,  whatever  they  might  say  of 
the  wandering  drunkard  from  whose 
tremulous  fingers  he  had  snatched  the 
opportunity.  They  could  not  take 
that  from  him,  however  they  might 
follow  him  with  envy  and  reviling, 
any  more  than  they  could  wrest  from 
him  the  five  years  of  peaceful  pos- 
session. It  was  with  something  of  the 
prosperous  consciousness  with  which 
he  had  mounted  the  platform  on  the 
opening  of  the  Free  Library,  that  he 
now  climbed  into  his  buggy  and  drove 
away. 

Nevertheless  he  stopped  at  his  Land 
Office  as  he  drove  into  town,  and  gave 
a  few  orders.  "  I  want  a  strong  picket 
fence  put  around  the  fifty  vara  lot  in 
block  fifty-seven,  and  the  ground 
cleared  up  at  once.  Let  me  know 
when  the  men  get  to  work,  and  I'll 
overlook  them." 

Re-entering  his  own  house  in  the 
square  where  Mrs.  Harcourt  and 
Clementina — who   often   accompanied 

B 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


him  in  those  business  visits — were 
waiting  for  him  with  luncheon,  he 
smiled  somewhat  superciliously  as  the 
servant  informed  him  that  "  Professor 
Grant  had  just  arrived."  Really  that 
man  was  trying  to  make  the  most  of 
his  time  with  Clementina  !  Perhaps 
the  rival  attractions  of  that  Boston 
swell  Shipley  had  something  to  do 
with  it  !  He  must  positively  talk  to 
Clementina  about  this.  In  point  of 
fact  he  himself  was  a  little  disappointed 
in  Grant,  who,  since  his  ofFer  to  take 
the  task  of  hunting  down  his  calum- 
niators, had  really  done  nothing.  He 
turned  into  his  study,  but  was  slightly 
astonished  to  find  that  Grant,  instead 
of  paying  court  to  Clementina  in  the 
adjoining  drawing-room,  was  sitting 
rather  thoughtfully  in  his  own  arm- 
chair. 

He  rose  as  Harcourt  entered.  "  I 
didn't  let  them  announce  me  to  the 
ladies,"  he  said,  ''  as  I  have  some 
important  business  with  you  tirst,  and 
we  may  find  it  necessary  that  I  should 
take  the  next  train  back  to  town. 
You  remember  that  a  few  weeks  ago 
I  offered  to  look  into  the  matter  of 
those  slanders  against  you.  I  ap- 
prehended it  would  be  a  trifling 
matter  of  envy  or  jealousy  on  the  part 
of  your  old  associates  or  neighbours 
which  coidd  be  put  straight  with  a 
little  good  feeling,  but  I  must  be 
frank  with  you,  Harcourt,  and  say  at 
the  beginning  that  it  turns  out  to  be 
an  infernally  ugly  business.  Call  it 
conspiracy  if  you  like,  or  organiseil 
hostility,  I'm  afraid  it  will  rec^uire  a 
lawyer  rather  than  an  arbitrator  to 
manage  it,  and  the  sooner  the  better. 
For  the  most  unpleasant  thing  about 
it  is,  that  I  can't  find  out  exactly  fiow 
had  it  is  :  " 

Unfortunately  the  weaker  instinct 
of  Harcourt's  nature  was  first  roused  ; 
the  vulgar  rage  which  confounds  the 
bearer  of  ill  news  with  the  news  itself 
filled  his  breast.  ''And  this  is  all 
that  your  confounded  intermeddling 
came  to  1 "  he  said  brutally. 

"No,"  said  Grant  quietly  with  a 
preoccupied  ignoring  of  the  insult  that 


was  more  hopeless  for  Harcourt.  **  I 
found  out  that]  it  is  claimed  that  this 
Lige  Curtis  was  not  drowned  nor  lost 
that  night ;  but  that  he  escaped,  and  for 
three  years  has  convinced  another  man 
that  you  are  wrongfully  in  possession 
of  this  land  ;  that  these  two  naturally 
hold  you  in  their  power,  and  that  they 
are  only  waiting  for  you  to  be  forced 
into  legal  ju'oceedings  for  slander  to 
prove  all  their  charges.  Until  then, 
for  some  reason  best  known  to  them- 
selves, Curtis  remains  in  the  back- 
ground." 

"  Does  he  deny  the  deed  under  which 
I  hold  the  property  ] "  said  Harcourt 
savagely. 

**  He  says  it  was  only  a  security  for 
a  trifling  loan,  and  not  an  actual 
transfer." 

"  And  don't  those  fools  know  that 
his  security  could  be  forfeited?" 

**  Yes,  but  not  in  the  way  it  is 
recorded  in  the  County  Clerk's  Office. 
They  say  that  the  record  shows  that 
there  was  an  interpolation  in  the  paper 
he  left  with  you — which  was  a  forgery. 
Briefly,  Harcourt,  you  are  accused  of 
that.  More — it  is  intimated  that 
when  he  fell  into  the  creek  that  night, 
and  escape<l  on  a  raft  that  was  floating 
past,  that  he  had  been  first  stunned  by 
a  blow  from  some  one  interested  in 
getting  rid  of  him." 

He  paused  and  glanced  out  of  the 
window. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  asked  Harcourt  in  a 
perfectly  (piiet,  steady  voice. 

"All,"  replied  Grant,  struck  with 
the  cliange  in  his  com{)anion's  manner 
and  turning  his  eyes  u|)on  him 
quickly. 

The  change  indeed  was  marked  and 
significant.  Whether  from  relief  at 
knowing  the  worst,  or  whether  he  was 
experiencing  the  same  reaction  from 
the  utter  falsity  of  this  last  accusation 
that  he  liad  felt  when  Grant  had 
unintentionally  wi*onged  him  in  his 
previous  recollection,  certain  it  is  that 
some  unknown  reserve  of  strength  in 
his  own  nature,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing  Wfore,  suddenly  came  to  his 
aid   in   this   extremity.     It    invested 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


him  with  an  uncouth  dignity  that  for 
the  first  time  excited  Grant's  respect. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Grant,  for  the 
hasty  way  I  spoke  to  you  a  moment 
ago,  for  I  thank  you,  and  appreciate 
thoroughly  and  sincerely  what  you 
have  done.  You  are  right ;  it  is  a 
matter  for  fighting,  and  not  fussing 
over.  But  I  must  have  a  head  to  hit. 
Whose  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  man  who  holds  himself  legally 
responsible  is  Fletcher — the  proprietor 
of  the  Cla/rion,  and  a  man  of 
property.'' 

"  The  Clarion  ?  That  is  the  paper 
which  began  the  attack?"  said 
Harcourt. 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  only  fair  to  tell  you 
here  that  your  son  threw  up  his  place 
on  it  in  consequence  of  its  attack  upon 
you." 

There  was  perhaps  the  slightest 
possible  shrinking  in  Harcourt' s  eye- 
lids— the  one  congenital  likeness  to  his 
discarded  son — but  his  otherwise  calm 
demeanour  did  not  change.  Grant  went 
on  more  cheerfully  :  "I've  told  you  all 
I  know.  When  I  spoke  of  an  un- 
known worsty  I  did  not  refer  to  any 
further  accusation  but  to  whatever 
evidence  they  might  have  fabricated  or 
suborned  to  prove  any  one  of  them. 
It  is  only  the  strength  and  fairness  of 
the  hands  they  hold  that  is  uncertain. 
Against  that  you  have  your  certain 
uncontested  possession,  the  peculiar 
character  and  antecedents  of  this  Lige 
Curtis  which  would  make  his  evidence 
untrustworthy  and  even  make  it 
difficult  for  them  to  establish  his 
identity.  I  am  told  that  his  failure  to 
contest  your  appropriation  of  his 
property  is  explained  by  the  fact  of  his 
being  absent  from  the  country  most  of 
the  time ;  but  again  this  would  not 
account  for  their  silence  until  within 
the  last  six  months,  unless  they  have 
been  waiting  for  further  evidence 
to  establish  it.  But  even  then  they 
must  have  known  that  the  time  of 
recovery  had  passed.  You  are  a 
practical  man,  Harcourt,  I  needn't  tell 
you  therefore  what  your  lawyer 
will  probably  tell  you,  that  practically, 


so  far  as  your  rights  are  concerned,  you 
remain  as  before  these  calumnies  ;  that 
a  cause  of  action  unprosecuted  or  in 
abeyance  is  practically  no  cause,  and 
that  it  is  not  for  you  to  anticipate  one. 
But " 

He  paused  and  looked  steadily  at 
Harcourt.  Harcourt  met  his  look 
with  a  dull,  ox-like  stolidity.  "  I  shall 
begin  the  suit  at  once,"  he  said. 

"  And  I, "  said  Grant,  holding  out 
his  hand,  **  will  stand  by  you.  But  tell 
me  now  what  you  knew  of  this  man 
Curtis — his  character  and  disposition  ; 
it  may  be  some  clue  as  to  what 
are  his  methods  and  his  intentions." 

Harcourt  briefly  sketched  Lige 
Curtis  as  he  knew  him  and  under- 
stood him.  It  was  another  indication 
of  his  reserved  power  that  the 
description  was  so  singularly  clear, 
practical,  unprejudiced,  and  impartial 
that  it  impressed  Grant  with  its 
truthfulness. 

"  I  can't  make  him  out,"  he  said ; 
"  you  have  drawn  a  weak,  but  neither 
a  dishonest  nor  malignant  man. 
There  must  have  been  somebody 
behind  him.  Can  you  think  of  any 
personal  enemy  1 " 

"  I  have  been  subjected  to  the  usual 
jealousy  and  envy  of  my  old  neigh- 
bours, I  suppose,  but  nothing  more.  I 
have  harmed  no  one  knowingly." 

Grant  was  silent;  it  had  flashed 
across  him  that  Bice  might  have  har- 
boured revenge  for  his  father-in-law' f 
interference  in  his  brief  matrimonial 
experience.  He  had  also  suddenly 
recalled  his  conversation  with  Billings 
on  the  day  that  he  first  arrived  at 
Tasajara.  It  would  not  be  strange  if 
this  man  had  some  intimation  of  the 
secret.  He  would  try  to  find  him  that 
evening.     He  rose. 

"  You  will  stay  to  dinner  ]  My 
wife  and  Clementina  will  expect  you.'* 

"  Not  to-night ;  I  am  dining  at  the 
hotel,"  said  Grant  smilingly ;  "  but  I 
will  come  in  later  in  the  evening  if  1 
may."  He  paused  hesitatingly  for 
a  moment.  "  Have  your  wife  and 
daughter  ever  expressed  any  opinion 
on  this  matter  1 " 

B  2 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


"No,"  said  Harcourt.  "Mrs. 
Harcourt  knows  nothing  of  anything 
that  does  not  happen  in  the  house  ; 
Euphemia  knows  only  the  things  that 
happen  out  of  it  where  she  is  visiting 
— and  I  suppose  that  young  men 
prefer  to  talk  to  her  about  other  things 
than  the  slanders  of  her  father.  And 
Clementina — well,  you  know  how 
calm  and  superior  to  these  things  she 
is." 

"For  that  very  reason  I  thought 
that  perhaps  she  might  be  able  to  see 
them  more  clearly — but  no  matter  !  I 
dare  say  you  are  quite  right  in  not 
discussing  them  at  home."  This  was 
the  fact,  although  Grant  had  not 
forgotten  that  Harcourt  had  put 
forward  his  daughters  as  a  reason  for 
stopping  the  scandal  some  weeks  be- 
fore— a  reason  which  however  seemed 
never  to  have  been  borne  out  by 
any  apparent  sensitiveness  of  the 
girls  themselves. 

When  Grant  had  left,  Harcourt 
remained  for  some  moments  steadfastly 
gazing  from  the  window  over  the  Tasa- 
jara plain.  He  had  not  lost  his  look  of 
concentrated  power,  nor  his  determina- 
tion to  fight.  A  struggle  between 
himself  and  the  phantoms  of  the  past 
had  become  now  a  necessary  stimulus 
for  its  own  sake — for  the  sake  of  his 
mental  and  physical  equipoise.  He 
saw  before  him  the  pale,  agitated, 
irresolute  features  of  Lige  Curtis — not 
the  man  he  had  injured,  but  the  man 
who  had  injured  him,  whose  spirit  was 
aimlessly  and  wantonly — for  he  had 
never  attempted  to  get  back  his 
possessions  in  his  lifetime,  nor  ever 
tried  to  communicate  with  the 
possessor — striking  at  him  in  the 
shadow.  And  it  was  that  man,  that 
pale,  writhing,  frightened  wretch 
whom  he  had  once  mercifully  helped  ! 
Yes,  whose  li/e  he  had  even  saved 
that  night  from  exposure  and  delirium 
tremens  when  he  had  given  him  the 
whisky.  And  this  life  he  had 
saved,  only  to  have  it  set  in  motion 
a  conspiracy  to  ruin  him  !  Who 
knows  that  Lige  had  not  purposely 
conceived  what  they  had  believed  to 


be  an  attempt  at  suicide,  only  to  cast 
suspicion  of  murder  on  him  I  From 
which  it  will  be  perceived  that 
Harcourt^s  powers  of  moral  reasoning 
had  not  improved  in  five  years,  and 
that  even  the  impartiality  he  had  just 
shown  in  his  description  of  Lige  to 
Grant  had  been  swallowed  up  in  this 
new  sense  of  injury.  The  founder  of 
Tasajara,  whose  cool  business  logic, 
unfailing  foresight,  and  practical 
deductions,  were  never  at  fault,  was 
once  more  childishly  adrift  in  his 
moral  ethics. 

And  there  was  Clementina,  of  whose 
judgment  Grant  had  spoken  so 
persistently,— could  she  assist  him] 
It  was  true,  as  he  had  said,  he  had 
never  talked  to  her  of  his  affairs.  In 
his  sometimes  uneasy  consciousness  of 
her  superiority  he  had  shrunk  from 
even  revealing  his  anxieties,  much  less 
his  actual  secret,  and  from  anything 
that  might  prejudice  the  lofty  paternal 
attitude  he  had  taken  towards  his 
daughters  from  the  beginning  of  his 
good  fortune.  He  was  never  quite 
sure  if  her  acceptance  of  it  was  real ; 
he  was  never  entirely  free  from  a 
certain  jealousy  that  always  mingled 
with  his  pride  in  her  superior 
rectitude ;  and  yet  his  feeling  was 
distinct  from  the  good-natured  con- 
tempt he  had  for  his  wife's  loyalty,  the 
anger  and  suspicion  that  his  son's 
opposition  had  provoked,  and  the  half 
affectionate  toleration  he  had  felt  for 
Euphemia' s  waywardness.  However 
he  would  sound  Clementina  without 
betraying  himself. 

He  was  anticipated  by  a  slight  step 
in  the  passage  and  the  pushing  open 
of  his  study  door.  The  tall,  graceful 
figure  of  the  girl  herself  stood  in  the 
opening. 

"  They  tell  me  Mr.  Grant  has  been 
here.     Does  he  stay  to  dinner  % " 

"  No,  he  has  an  engagement  at  the 
hotel,  but  he  will  probably  drop  in 
later.  Come  in,  Clemmy  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.  Shut  the  door  and  sit 
down." 

She  slipped  in  quietly,  shut  the  door, 
took  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  softly  smoothed 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


down  her  gown,  and  turned  her 
graceful  head  and  serenely  composed 
face  towards  him.  Sitting  thus  she 
looked  like  some  finely  finished  paint- 
ing that  decorated  rather  than 
belonged  to  the  room — not  only 
distinctly  alien  to  the  flesh  and  blood 
relative  before  her,  but  to  the  house, 
and  even  the  local,  monotonous  land- 
scape beyond  the  window  with  the 
shining  new  shingles  and  chimneys 
that  cut  the  new  blue  sky.  These 
singular  perfections  seemed  to  increase 
in  Harcourt's  mind  the  exasperating 
sense  of  injury  inflicted  upon  him  by 
Lige^s  exposures.  With  a  daughter  so 
incomparably  gifted — a  matchless 
creation  that  was  enough  in  herself  to 
ennoble  that  fortune  which  his  own 
skill  and  genius  had  lifted  from  the 
muddy  tules  of  Tasajara  where  this 
Lige  had  left  it — that  she  should  be 
subjected  to  this  annoyance  seemed  an 
infamy  that  Providence  could  not 
allow  I  What  was  his  mere  venial 
transgression  to  this  exaggerated 
retribution  ? 

"Clemmy,  girl,  I'm  going  to  ask 
you  a  question.  Listen,  Pet.*'  He 
had  begun  with  a  reminiscent  tender- 
ness of  the  epoch  of  her  childhood,  but 
meeting  the  unresponding  maturity  of 
her  clear  eyes  he  abandoned  it.  "  You 
know,  Clementina,  I  have  never  inter- 
fered in  your  affairs,  nor  tried  to  in- 
fluence your  friendships  for  anybody. 
Whatever  people  may  have  to  say  of 
me  they  can't  say  that !  I've  always 
trusted  you,  as  I  would  myself,  to 
choose  your  own  associates ;  I  have 
never  regretted  it,  and  I  don't  regret 
it  now.  But  I'd  like  to  know — I 
have  reasons  to-day  for  asking — 
how  matters  stand  between  you 
and  Grant." 

The  Parian  head  of  Minerva  on 
the  book-case  above  her  did  not  offer, 
the  spectator  a  face  less  free  from 
maidenly  confusion  than  Clementina's 
at  that  moment.  Her  father  had 
certainly  expected  none,  but  he  was 
not  prepared  for  the  perfect  coolness  of 
her  reply. 

"  Do  you  mean  have  I  accepted  himi " 


"  No — well — yes." 

"  No,  then !  Is  that  what  he 
wished  to  see  you  about  ?  It  was 
understood  that  he  was  not  to  allude 
again  to  the  subject  to  any  one." 

"  He  has  not  to  me.  It  was  only 
my  own  idea.  He  had  something 
very  different  to  tell  me.  You  may 
not  know,  Clementina"  he  begun 
cautiously,  "  that  I  have  been  lately 
the  subject  of  some  anonymous  slan- 
ders, and  Grant  has  taken  the  trouble 
to  track  them  down  for  me.  It  is  a 
calumny  that  goes  back  as  far  as 
Sidon,  and  I  may  want  your  level 
head  and  good  memory  to  help  me 
to  refute  it."  He  then  repeated 
calmly  and  clearly,  with  no  trace  of  the 
fury  that  had  raged  within  him  a 
moment  before,  the  substance  of 
Grant's  revelation. 

The  young  girl  listened  without 
apparent  emotion.  When  he  had 
finished  she  said  quickly  :  "And  what 
do  you  want  me  to  recollect  ?  " 

The  hardest  part  of  Harcourt's  task 
was  coming.  **  Well,  don't  you 
remember  that  I  told  you  the  day  the 
surveyors  went  away — that — I  had 
bought  this  land  of  Lige  Curtis  some 
time  before?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember  your  saying  so, 
but " 

"  But  what  ] " 

"  I  thought  you  only  meant  that  to 
satisfy  mother." 

Daniel    Harcourt    felt    the    blood^ 
settling  round  his  heart,  but  he  was 
constrained  by  an  irresistible  impulse- 
to  know  the  worst.     "  Well,  what  did' 
you  think  it  really  was  1 " 

"  I  only  thought  that  Lige  Curtis 
had  simply  let  you  have  it,  that's  all." 

Harcourt  breathed  again.  "But 
what  for]  Why  should  he?" 

"  Well — on  my  account^ 

"  On  your  account  !  What  in 
Heaven's  name  had  you  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  He  loved  me."  There  was  not  the 
slightest  trace  of  vanity,  self-con- 
sciousness or  coquetry  in  her  quiet 
fateful  face,  and  for  this  very  reason 
Harcourt  knew  that  she  was  speaking 
the  truth. 


6 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


"  Loved  you/ — you,  Clementina  ! — 
my  daughter  !     Did  he  ever  tell  you 

"Not  in  words.  He  used  to  walk 
up  and  down  on  the  road  when  I  was 
at  the  back  window  or  in  the  garden, 
and  often  hung  about  the  bank  of  the 
creek  for  hours,  like  some  animal.  I 
don't  think  the  others  saw  him,  and 
when  they  did  they  thought  it  was 
Parmlee  for  Euphemia.  Even  Euphe- 
mia  thought  so  too,  and  that  was  why 
she  was  so  conceited  and  hard  to 
Parmlee  towards  the  end.  She 
thought  it  was  Parmlee  that  night 
when  Grant  and  Rice  came ;  but  it 
was  lige  Curtis  who  had  been  watching 
the  window  lights  in  the  rain,  and  who 
must  have  gone  off  at  last  to  speak  to 
you  in  the  store.  I  always  let  Phemie 
believe  that  it  was  Parmlee  —  it 
seemed  to  please  her." 

There  was  not  the  least  tone 
of  mischief  or  superiority,  or  even 
of  patronage  in  her  manner.  It 
was  as  quiet  and  cruel  as  the  fate  that 
might  have  led  Ligeto  his  destruction. 
Even  her  father  felt  a  slight  thrill  of 
awe  as  she  paused.  "Then  he  never 
really  spoke  to  you  ? "  he  asked 
hurriedly. 

"Only     once.     I      was     gathering 

swamp  lilies  all  alone,  a  mile  below  the 

bend  of  the  creek,  and  he  came  upon 

me  suddenly.     Perhaps  it  was  that  I 

didn't   jump   or   start — /   didn't    see 

anything  to  jump  or  start  at — and  he 

said,  *  You're   not    frightened  at  me, 

Miss    Harcourt,  like  the  other  girls? 

You  don't  think  I'm  drunk  or  half  mad 

— as    they  do  ] '      I  don't  remember 

exactly  what  I  said,  but  it  meant  that 

whether  he  was  drunk  or  half  mad  or 

sober  I  didn't  see  any  reason  to  be 

afraid  of  him.    And  then  he  told  me 

that  if  I  was  fond  of  swamp  lilies  I 

might  have  all  I  wanted  at  his  place, 

and  for  the  matter  of  that  the  place 

too,    as   he   was  going  away,   for  he 

couldn't    stand    the     loneliness     any 

longer.     He  said  that  he  had  nothing 

in  common   with   the    place  and  the 

people — no    more    than   /    had— and 

that  was  what  he  had  always  fancied 


in  me.  I  told  him  that  if  he  felt  in 
that  way  about  his  nlace  he  ought  to 
leave  it,  or  sell  it  to  some  one  who 
cared  for  it,  and  go  away.  That  must 
have  been  in  his  mind  when  he 
offered  it  to  you— at  least  that's 
what  I  thought  when  you  told  us  you 
had  bought  it.  I  didn't  know  but 
what  he  might  have  told  you — but 
you  didn't  care  to  say  it  before 
mother." 

Mr.  Harcourt  sat  gazing  at  her  with 
breathless  amazement.  "  And  you — 
think  that — Lige  Curtis — lov — liked 
you?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  did — ^and  that  he 
does  now ! " 

"  Now  I — What  do  you  mean  1     The 
man  is  dead  ! "  said  Harcourt  starting. 
"That's  just  what  I  don't  believe." 
"  Impossible  !     Think  of  what  you 
are  saying." 

"  I  never  could  quite  understand  or 
feel  that  he  was  dead  when  everybody 
said  so,  and  now  that  I've  heard  this 
story  I  know  that  he  is  living." 

"  But  why  did  he  not  make  himself 
known  in  time  to  claim  the  pro- 
perty?" 

"  Because  he  did  not  eare  for  it." 
"  What  did  he  care  for  th^i !  " 
"  Me  I  suppose." 

"  But  this  calumny  is  not  like  a 
man  who  loves  you." 

"It  is  like  AJecUovs  one." 
With  an  effort  Harcourt  threw  off 
his  bewildered  incredulity  and  grasped 
the  situation.  He  would  have  to  con- 
tend with  his  enemy  in  the  flesh  and 
blood,  but  that  flesh  and  blood  would 
be  very  weak  in  the  hands  of  the  impas- 
sive girl  beside  him.  His  face  lightened. 
The  same  idea  might  have  been  in 
Clementina's  mind  when  she  spoke 
again,  although  her  face  had  remained 
unchanged.  "I  do  not  see  why  you 
should  bother  yourself  further  about 
it,"  she  said.  "It  is  only  a  matter 
between  myself  and  him ;  you  can 
leave  it  to  me." 

"  But  if   you  are  mistaken  and  he 
should  not  be  living  1  " 

"I  am  not  mistaken.     I   am  even 
certain  now  that  I  have  seen  him." 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


''  Seen  him !  " 

^'  Yes,"  said  the  girl  with  the  first 
trace  of  animation  in  her  face.  "It 
was  four  or  five  months  ago  when  we 
were  visiting  the  Briones  at  Monterey. 
We  had  ridden  out  to  the  old  Mission 
by  moonlight.  There  were  some 
Mexicans  lounging  around  the  poaada^ 
and  one  of  them  attracted  my  attention 
by  the  way  he  seemed  to  watch  me, 
without  revealing  any  more  of  his 
face  than  I  could  see  between  his 
serape  and  the  black  silk  handkerchief 
that  was  tied  around  his  head  under 
his  sombrero.  But  I  knew  he  was  an 
American — and  his  eyes  were  familiar. 
I  believe  it  was  he." 

"  Why  did  you  not  speak  of  it 
before  % " 

The  look  of  animation  died  out  of 
the  girFs  face.  "  Why  should  I  T '  she 
said  listlessly.  "  I  did  not  know  of 
these  reports  then.  He  was  nothing 
more  to  us.  You  wouldn't  have  cared 
to  see  him  again."  She  rose,  smoothed 
out  her  skirt  and  stood  looking  at  her 
father.  "  There  is  one  thing  of  course 
that  you'll  do  at  once." 

Her  voice  had  changed  so  oddly  that 
he  said  quickly  :  "  What's  that  ?  " 

"Call  Grant  off  the  scent.  He'll 
only  frighten  or  exasperate  your 
game,  and  that's  what  you  don't 
want." 

Her  voice  was  as  imperious  as  it  had 
been  previously  listless.  And  it  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  known  her 
to  use  slang.  It  seemed  as  startling  as 
if  it  had  fallen  from  the  marble  lips 
above  him. 

"But  I've  promised  him  that  we 
should  go  together  to  my  lawyer  to- 
morrow, and  begin  a  suit  against  the 
proprietors  of  the  Clarion.'" 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Get  rid  of 
Grant's  assistance  in  this  matter  ;  and 
see  the  Cla/rion  proprietor  yourself. 
What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?  Can  you 
invite  him  to  your  house  % " 

"  I  have  never  seen  him ;  I  believe 
he  lives  at  San  Jos6.  He  is  a  wealthy 
man  and  a  large  landowner  there. 
You  understand  that  after  the  first 
article  appeared  in  his  paper,   and   I 


knew  that  he  had  employed  your 
brother — although  Grant  says  that  he 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it  and  left 
Fletcher  on  account  of  it — I  could 
have  no  intercourse  with  him. 
Even  if  I  invited  him  he  would  not 
come." 

"  He  must  come.  Leave  it  to  we." 
She  stopped  and  resumed  her  former 
impassive  manner.  "  I  had  something 
to  say  to  you  too,  father.  Mr. 
Shipley  proposed  to  me  the  day  we 
went  to   San   Mateo." 

Her  father's  eyes  lit  with  an  eager 
sparkle.     "  Well,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  I  reminded  him  that  I  had  known 
him  only  a  few  weeks,  and  that  I 
wanted  time  to  consider." 

"  Consider  !  Why,  Clemmy,  he's 
one  of  the  oldest  Boston  families,  rich 
from  his  father  and  grandfather — rich 
when  I  was  a  shopkeeper  and  your 
mother " 

"  I  thought  you  liked  Grant  1 "  she 
said  quietly. 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  have  no  choice  nor 
feeling  in  the  matter,  why  Shipley  is 
far  the  better  man.  And  if  any  of 
the     scandal     should     come    to     his 


ears — 

"  So  much  the  better  that  the  hesi- 
tation should  come  from  me.  But  if 
you  think  it  better,  I  can  sit  down  here 
and  write  to  him  at  once  declining 
the  offer."  She  moved  towards  the 
desk. 

"  No  !  No  !  I  did  not  mean  that," 
said  Harcourt  quickly.  "I  only 
thought  that  if  he  did  hear  anything 
it  might  be  said  that  he  had  backed 
out." 

"  His  sister  knows  of  his  offer,  and 
though  she  don't  like  it  nor  me,  she 
will  not  deny  the  fact.  By  the  way,  you 
remember  when  she  was  lost  that  day 
on  the  road  to  San  Mateo  ] " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  she  was  with  your  son,  John 
Milton,  all  the  time,  and  they  lunched 
together  at  Crystal  Spring.  It  came 
out  quite  accidentally  through  the 
hotel-keeper." 

Harcourt's  brow  darkened.  "  Did 
she  know  him  before  1 " 


8 


A  First  Faintly  of  Tasajara, 


"  I  can*t  say  ;  but  she  does  now." 
Harcourt's  face  was  heavy  with  dis- 
trust. "Taking  Shipley's  offer  and 
these  scandals  into  consideration,  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  this,  Clemen- 
tina." 

"I  do,"  said  the  girl  simply. 
Harcourt  gazed  at  her  keenly  and 
with  the  shadow  of  distrust  still  upon 
him.  It  seemed  to  be  quite  impossible, 
even  with  what  he  knew  of  her  calmly 
cold  nature,  that  she  should  be  equally 
uninfluenced  by  Grant  or  Shipley. 
Had  she  some  steadfast,  lofty  ideal — or 
perhaps  some  already  absorbing  pas- 
sion of  which  he  knew  nothing  ?  She 
was  not  a  girl  to  betray  it — they  would 
only  know  it  when  it  was  too  late. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was 
still  something  between  her  and  Lige 
that  he  knew  nothing  of  ?  The  thought 
struck  a  chill  to  his  breast.  She  was 
walking  towards  the  door,  when  he  re- 
called himself  with  an  effort.. 

"  If  you  think  it  advisable  to  see 
Fletcher,  you  might  run  down  to  San 
Jos6  for  a  day  or  two  with  your 
mother,  and  call  on  the  Ramirez. 
They  may  know  him  or  somebody  who 
does.  Of  course  if  you  meet  him  and 
casually  invite  him  it  would  be 
different." 

*'  It's  a  good  idea,"  she  said  quickly. 
"  I'll  do  it  and  speak  to  mother  now." 
He  was  struck  by  the  change  in  her 
face  and  voice  ;  they  had  both  ner- 
vously lightened,  as  oddly  and  dis- 
tinctly as  they  had  before  seemed  to 
groV  suddenly  harsh  and  aggressive. 
She  passed  out  of  the  room  with 
girlish  brusqueness,  leaving  him  alone 
with  a  new  and  vague  fear  in  his  con- 
sciousness. 

A  few  hours  later  Clementina  was 
standing  before  the  window  of  the 
drawing-room  that  overlooked  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town.  The  moonlight 
was  flooding  the  vast  bluish  Tasajara 
levels  with  a  faint  lustre  as  if  the 
waters  of  the  creek  had  once  more 
returned  to  them.  In  the  shadow  of 
the  curtain  beside  her  Grant  was 
facing  her  with  anxious  eyes. 


**  Then  I  must  take  this  as  your 
final  answer,  Clementina  ?  " 

"  You  must.  And  had  I  known  of 
these  calumnies  before,  had  you  been 
frank  with  me  even  the  day  we  went 
to  San  Mateo,  my  answer  would  have 
been  as  final  then,  and  you  might  have 
been  spared  any  further  suspense.  I 
am  not  blaming  you,  Mr.  Grant ;  I  am 
willing  to  believe  that  you  thought  it 
best  to  conceal  this  from  me — even  at 
that  time  when  you  had  just  pledged 
yourself  to  find  out  its  truth  or  false- 
hood— yet  my  answer  would  have  been 
the  same.  So  long  as  this  stain  rests 
on  my  father's  name  I  shall  never  allow 
that  name  to  be  coupled  with  yours  in 
marriage  or  engagement ;  nor  will  my 
pride  or  yours  allow  us  to  carry  on 
a  simple  friendship  after  this.  I 
thank  you  for  your  offer  of  assistance, 
but  I  cannot  even  accept  that  which 
might  to  others  seem  to  allow  some 
contingent  claim.  I  would  rather 
believe  that  when  you  proposed  this 
inquiry  and  my  father  permitted  it,  you 
both  knew  that  it  put  an  end  to  any 
other  relations  between  us." 

"  But,  Clementina,  you  are  wrong, 
believe  me !  Say  that  I  have  been 
foolish,  indiscreet,  mad — still  the  few 
who  knew  that  I  made  these  inquiries 
on  yoiu"  father's  behalf  know  nothing 
of  my  hopes  of  you  !  " 

"  But  /  do,  and  that  is  enough  for 


me. 


>» 


Even  in  the  hopeless  preoccupation 
of  his  passion  he  suddenly  looked  at 
her  with  something  of  his  old  critical 
scrutiny.  But  she  stood  there  calm, 
concentrated,  self-possessed  and  up- 
right. Yes  I  it  was  possible  that  the 
pride  of  this  South-western  shop- 
keeper's daughter  was  greater  than 
his  own. 

"  Then  you  banish  me,  Clemen- 
tina ? " 

"  It  is  we  whom  you  have  banished." 

"  Good-night." 

''  Good-bye." 

He  bent  for  an  instant  over  her  cold 
hand,  and  then  passed  out  into  the 
hall.  She  remained  listening  until  the 
front  door  closed  behind  him.     Then 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


9 


she  ran  swiftly  through  the  hall  and 
up  the  staircase,  with  an  alacrity  that 
seemed  impossible  to  the  stately 
goddess  of  a  moment  before.  When 
she  had  reached  her  bedroom  and 
closed  the  door,  so  exuberant  still  and 
so  uncontrollable  was  her  levity 
and  action,  that  without  going  round 
the  bed  which  stood  before  her  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  she  placed  her  two 
hands  upon  it  and  lightly  vaulted  side- 
ways across  it  to  reach  the  window. 
There  she  watched  the  figure  of  Grant 
crossing  the  moonlit  square.  Then 
tiirning  back  into  the  half -lit  room, 
she  ran  to  the  small  dressing-glass 
placed  at  an  angle  on  a  toilet  table 
against  the  wall.  "With  her  palms 
grasping  her  knees  she  stooped  down 
suddenly  and  contemplated  the  mirror. 
It  showed  what  no  one  but  Clementina 
had  ever  seen — and  she  herself  only  at 
rare  intervals — the  laughing  eyes  and 
soul  of  a  self-satisfied,  material-minded, 
ordinary  country  girl ! 

CHAPTER  X. 

But  Mr.  Lawrence  Grant's  charac- 
ter in  certain  circumstances  would 
seem  to  have  as  startling  and  inex- 
plicable contradictions  as  Clementina 
Harcourt's,  and  three  days  later  he 
halted  his  horse  at  the  entrance  of 
Los  Gatos  Rancho.  The  Home  of 
the  Cats  —  so  called  from  the  cata- 
mounts which  infested  the  locality — 
which  had  for  over  a  century  lazily 
basked  before  one  of  the  hottest 
canons  in  the  Coast  Range,  had  lately 
been  stirred  into  some  activity  by  the 
American,  Don  Diego  Fletcher,  who 
had  bought  it,  put  up  a  saw-mill,  and 
deforested  the  canon.  Still  there  re- 
mained enough  suggestion  of  a  feline 
haunt  about  it  to  make  Grant  feel  as 
if  he  had  tracked  hither  some  stealthy 
enemy,  in  spite  of  the  peaceful  intima- 
tion conveyed  by  the  sign  on  a  rough 
boarded  shed  at  the  wayside,  that  the 
**  Los  Gatos  Land  and  Lumber  Com- 
pany "  held  their  office  there. 

A  cigarette  smoking  ^;e07i  lounged 
before    the  door.      Yes ;   Don  Diego 


was  there,  but  as  he  had  arrived  from 
Santa  Clara  only  last  night  and  was 
going  to  Colonel  Ramirez  that  aflJer- 
noon  he  was  engaged.  Unless  the 
business  was  important — but  the  cool, 
determined  manner  of  Grant,  even 
more  than  his  words,  signified  that  it 
was  important,  and  the  servant  led 
the  way  to  Don  Diego's  presence. 

There  certainly  was  nothing  in  the 
appearance  of  this  sylvan  proprietor 
and  newspaper  capitalist  to  justify 
Grant's  suspicion  of  a  surreptitious 
foe.  A  handsome  man  scarcely  older 
than  himself,  in  spite  of  a  wavy  mass 
of  perfectly  white  hair  which  con- 
trasted singularly  with  his  brown 
moustache  and  dark  sunburned  face. 
So  disguising  was  the  effect  of  these 
contradictions,  that  he  not  only  looked 
unlike  anybody  else,  but  even  his 
nationality  seemed  to  be  a  matter  of 
doubt.  Only  his  eyes,  light  blue  and 
intelligent,  which  had  a  singular  ex 
pression  of  gentleness  and  worry,  ap- 
peared individual  to  the  man.  His 
manner  was  cultivated  and  easy.  He 
motioned  his  visitor  courteously  to  a 
chair. 

"  I  was  referred  to  you,"  said  Grant 
almost  abruptly,  "as  the  person  re- 
sponsible for  a  series  of  slanderous 
attacks  against  Mr.  Daniel  Harcourt 
in  the  Clarioriy  of  which  paper  I  believe 
you  are  the  proprietor.  I  was  told 
that  you  declined  to  give  the  authority 
for  your  action,  unless  you  were  forced 
to  by  legal  proceedings." 

Fletcher's  sensitive  blue  eyes  rested 
upon  Grant's  with  an  expression  of 
constrained  pain  and  pity.  "  I  heard 
of  your  inquiries,  Mr.  Grant  ;  you 
were  making  them  on  behalf  of  this 
Mr.  Harcourt  or  Harkutt  " — he  made 
the  distinction  with  intentional  deli- 
beration— *'  with  a  view  I  believe  to 
some  arbitration.  The  case  was  stated 
to  you  fairly,  I  think  ;  T  believe  I  have 
nothing  to  add  to  it." 

"That  was  your  answer  to  the 
ambassador  of  Mr.  Harcourt,"  said 
Grant  coldly,  "  and  as  such  I  delivered 
it  to  him ;  but  I  am  here  to-day  to 
speak  on  my  own  account." 


10 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


What  could  be  seen  of  Mr.  Fletcher's 
lips  appeared  to  curl  in  an  odd  smile. 
"  Indeed,  I  thought  it  was — or  would 
be — all  in  the  family." 

Grant's  face  grew  more  stern,  and 
his  grey  eyes  glittered.  "  You'll  find 
my  status  in  this  matter  so  far  inde- 
pendent that  I  don't  propose,  like  Mr. 
Harcourt,  either  to  begin  a  suit  or  to 
rest  quietly  under  the  calumny. 
Briefly,  Mr.  Fletcher,  as  you  or  your 
informant  knows,  I  was  the  surveyor 
who  revealed  to  Mr.  Harcourt  the 
value  of  the  land  to  which  he  claimed 
a  title  from  your  man — this  Elijah  or 
lAge  Curtis  as  you  call  him  " —  he  could 
not  resist  this  imitation  of  his  adver- 
sary's supercilious  affectation  of  pre- 
cise nomenclature — "  and  it  was  upon 
my  representation  of  its  value  as  an 
investment  that  he  began  the  im- 
provements which  have  made  him 
wealthy.  If  this  title  was  fraudulently 
obtained  all  the  facts  pertaining  to  it 
are  sufficiently  related  to  connect  me 
with  the  conspiracy." 

"  Are  you  not  a  little  hasty  in  your 
presumption,  Mr.  Grant  ?  "  said 
Fletcher,  with  unfeigned  surprise. 

"That  is  for  me  to  judge,  Mr. 
Fletcher,"  returned  Grant  haughtily. 

"  But  the  name  of  Professor  Grant 
is  known  to  all  California  as  beyond 
the  breath  of  calumny  or  suspicion." 

"It  is  because  of  that  fact  that  I 
propose  to  keep  it  so." 

"  And  may  I  ask  in  what  way  you 
wish  me  to  assist  you  in  so  doing  1 " 

"  By  promptly  and  publicly  retract- 
ing in  the  Clarion  every  word  of  this 
slander  against  Harcourt." 

Fletcher  looked  steadfastly  at  the 
speaker.     "  And  if  I  decline?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  been  long  enough 
in  California,  Mr.  Fletcher,  to  know 
the  alternative  expected  of  a  gentle- 
man," said  Grant  coldly. 

Mr.  Fletcher  kept  his  gentle  blue 
eyes — in  which  surprise  still  over- 
balanced their  expression  of  pained 
concern — on  Grant's  face. 

"  But  is  this  not  more  in  the  style 
of  Colonel  Starbottle  than  Professor 
Grant  1 "  he  asked  with  a  faint  smile. 


Grant  rose  instantly  with  a  white 
face.  "  You  will  have  a  better  opportu- 
nity of  judging," he  said,  "when  Colonel 
Starbottle  has  the  honour  of  waiting 
upon  you  from  me.  Meantime,  I 
thank  you  for  reminding  me  of  the 
indiscretion  into  which  my  folly,  in 
still  believing  that  this  thing  could  be 
settled  amicably,  has  led  me." 

He  bowed  coldly  and  withdrew. 
Nevertheless,  as  he  mounted  his  horse 
and  rode  away,  he  felt  his  cheeks 
burning.  Yet  he  had  acted  upon  calm 
consideration  ;  he  knew  that  to  the 
ordinary  Californian  experience  there 
was  nothing  Quixotic  nor  exaggerated 
in  the  attitude  he  had  taken.  Men 
had  quarrelled  and  fought  on  less 
grounds ;  he  had  even  half  convinced 
himself  that  he  had  been  insulted,  and 
that  his  own  professional  reputation 
demanded  the  withdrawal  of  the  attack 
on  Harcourt  on  purely  business  grounds ; 
but  he  was  not  satisfied  of  the  personal 
responsibility  of  Fletcher  nor  of  his 
gratuitous  malignity.  Nor  did  the 
man  look  like  a  tool  in  the  hands  of 
some  unscrupulous  and  hidden  enemy. 
However,  he  had  played  his  card.  If 
he  succeeded  only  in  provoking  a  duel 
with  Fletcher,  he  at  least  would  divert 
the  public  attention  from  H!arcourt  to 
himself.  He  knew  that  his  superior 
position  would  throw  the  lesser  victim 
in  the  background.  He  would  make 
the  sacrifice  ;  that  was  his  duty  as  a 
gentleman,  even  if  she  would  not  care 
to  accept  it  as  an  earnest  of  his  un- 
selfish love! 

He  had  reached  the  point  where  the 
mountain  track  entered  the  Santa  Clara 
turnpike  when  his  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  a  handsome  but  old-fashioned 
carriage  drawn  by  four  white  mules, 
which  passed  down  the  road  before  him 
and  turned  suddenly  off  into  a  private 
road.  But  it  was  not  this  picturesque 
gala  equipage  of  some  local  Spanish 
grandee  that  brought  a  thrill  to  his 
nerves  and  a  flash  to  his  eye  ;  it  was 
the  unmistakable,  tall,  elegant  figure 
and  handsome  profile  of  Clementina, 
reclining  in  light  gauzy  wraps  against 
the  back  seat !     It  was  no  fanciful  re- 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


11 


semblance,  the  outcome  of  his  reverie 
— there  never  was  any  one  like  her  ! 
— it  was  she  herself  I  But  what  was 
she  doing  here  1 

A  vaquero  cantered  from  the  cross 
road  where  the  dust  of  the  vehicle  still 
hung.  Grant  hailed  him.  Ah  !  it  was 
a  fine  ccbrroza  de  cucUro  midas  that  he 
had  just  passed  !  Si,  Senor,  truly  ;  it 
was  of  Don  Jose  Ramirez  who  lived  just 
under  the  hill.  It  was  bringing  com- 
pany to  the  casa, 

Bamirez  !  That  was  where  Fletcher 
was  going  !  Had  Clementina  known 
that  he  was  one  of  Fletcher's  friends  1 
Might  she  not  be  exposed  to  un- 
pleasantness, marked  coolness,  or  even 
insult  in  that  unexpected  meeting? 
Ought  she  not  to  be  warned  or  prepared 
for  it  1  She  had  banished  Grant  from 
her  presence  until  this  stain  was  re- 
moved from  her  father's  name,  but 
could  she  blame  him  for  trying  to  save 
her  from  contact  with  her  father's 
sland^fer  ?  No  !  He  turned  his  horse 
abruptly  into  the  cross  road  and 
spurred  forward  in  the  direction  of  the 
Casa. 

It  was  quite  visible  now — a  low- 
walled,  quadrangular  mass  of  white- 
washed adobe,  lying  like  a  drift  on  the 
green  hillside.  The  carriage  and  four 
had  far  preceded  him,  and  was  already 
half  up  the  winding  road  towards 
the  house.  Later  he  saw  them  reach 
the  courtyard  and  disappear  within. 
He  would  be  quite  in  time  to  speak 
with  her  before  she  retired  to  change 
her  dress.  He  would  simply  say  that 
while  making  a  professional  visit  to 
Los  Gatos  Land  Company  Oifice  he 
had  become  aware  of  Fletcher's  con- 
nection with  it,  and  accidentally  of  his 
intended  visit  to  Ramirez.  His  chance 
meeting  with  the  carriage  on  the  high- 
way had  determined  his  course. 

As  he  rode  into  the  courtyard  he 
observed  that  it  was  also  approached 
by  another  road,  evidently  nearer  Los 
Gatos,  and  probably  the  older  and 
shorter  communication  between  the 
two  ranchos.  The  fact  was  signifi- 
cantly demonstrated  a  moment  later. 
He  had  given  his  horse  to  a  servant. 


sent  in  his  card  to  Clementina,  and 
had  dropped  listlessly  on  one  of  the 
benches  of  the  gallery  surrounding  the 
paiio,  when  a  horseman  rode  briskly 
into  the  opposite  gateway,  and  dis- 
mounted with  a  familiar  air.  A  wait- 
ing peon  who  recognised  him,  informed 
him  that  the  Dona  was  engaged  with 
a  visitor,  but  that  they  were  both  re- 
turning to  the  gallery  for  chocolate  in 
a  moment.  The  stranger  was  the 
man  he  had  left  only  an  hour  before — 
Don  Diego  Fletcher  ! 

In  an  instant  the  idiotic  fatuity  of 
his  position  struck  him  fully.  His 
only  excuse  for  following  Clementina 
had  been  to  warn  her  of  the  coming  of 
this  man  who  had  just  entered,  and 
who  would  now  meet  her  as  quickly  as 
himself.  For  a  brief  mcMoaent  the 
idea  of  quietly  slipping  out  to  the 
corral,  mounting  his  horse  again,  and 
flying  from  the  rancho,  crossed  his 
mind  ;  but  the  thought  that  he  would 
be  running  away  from  the  man  he  had 
just  challenged,  and  perhaps  somiO  new 
hostility  that  had  sprung  up  in  his 
heart  against  him,  compelled  him  to 
remaizL  The  eyes  of  both  men  met ; 
Fletchw's  in  half -wondering  annoy- 
ance, Grant's  in  ill-conoealed  antag- 
onism. What  they  would  have  said 
is  not  known,  for  at  that  moment  the 
voice  of  Clementina  and  Mrs.  Ramirez 
were  heard  in  the  passage,  and  they 
both  entered  the  gallery.  The  two 
men  were  standing  together ;  it  was 
impossible  to  see  one  without  the 
other. 

And  yet  Grant,  whose  eyes  were 
instantly  directed  to  Clementina, 
thought  that  she  had  noted  neither. 
She  remained  for  an  instant  standing 
in  the  doorway  in  the  same  self-pos- 
sessed, coldly  graceful  pose  he  remem- 
bered she  had  taken  on  the  platform 
at  Tasajara.  Her  eyelids  were  slightly 
downcast  as  if  she  had  been  arrested 
by  some  sudden  thought  or  some  shy 
maiden  sensitiveness ;  in  her  hesitation 
Mrs.  Ramirez  passed  impatiently  be- 
fore her. 

"  Mother  of  God  !  *'  said  that  lively 
lady,  regarding  the  two  speechless  men. 


12 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


**  is  it  an  indiscretion  we  are  making 
here — or  are  you  dumb?  You,  Don 
Diego,  are  loud  enough  when  you  and 
Don  Jos^  are  together  ;  at  least  intro- 
duce your  friend." 

Grant  quickly  recovered  himself. 
"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  coming  for- 
ward, "unless  Miss  Harcourt  does, 
that  I  am  a  mere  trespasser  in  your 
house,  Senora.  I  saw  her  pass  in  your 
carriage  a  few  moments  ago,  and  hav- 
ing a  message  for  her  I  ventured  to 
follow  her  here." 

"  It  is  Mr.  Grant,  a  friend  of  my 
father's,"  said  Clementina,  smiling 
with  equanimity  as  if  just  awakening 
from  a  momentary  abstraction,  yet 
apparently  unconscious  of  Grant's  im- 
ploring eyes ;  **  but  the  other  gentleman 
I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing." 

"  Ah — Don  Diego  Fletcher,  a  coun- 
tryman of  yours  ;  and  yet  I  think  he 
knows  you  not." 

Clementina's  face  betrayed  no  indi- 
cation of  the  presence  of  her  father's 
foe,  and  yet  Grant  knew  that  she  must 
have  recognised  his  name  as  she  looked 
towards  Fletcher  with  perfect  self-pos- 
session. He  was  too  much  engaged 
in  watching  her  to  take  note  of 
Fletcher's  manifest  disturbance  or  the 
evident  effort  with  which  he  at  last 
bowed  to  her.  That  this  unexpected 
double  meeting  with  the  daughter  of 
the  man  he  had  wronged,  and  the  man 
who  had  espoused  the  quarrel,  should 
be  confounding  to  him  appeared  only 
natural.  But  he  was  unprepared  to 
understand  the  feverish  alacrity  with 
which  he  accepted  Dona  Maria's 
invitation  to  chocolate,  or  the  equally 
animated  way  in  which  Clementina 
threw  herself  into  her  hostess's 
Spanish  levity.  He  knew  it  was 
an  awkward  situation  that  must  be 
surmounted  without  a  scene ;  he  was 
quite  prepared  in  the  presence  of 
Clementina  to  be  civil  to  Fletcher,  but 
it  was  odd  that  in  ^this .  feverish  ex- 
change of  courtesies  and  compliments 
he,  Grant,  should  feel  the  greater  awk- 
wardness, and  be  the  most  ill  at  ease. 
He  sat  down  and  took  his  part  in  the 
conversation;  he  let  it  transpire  for 


Clementina's  benefit,  that  he  had  been 
to  Los  Gatos  only  on  business,  yet 
there  was  no  opportunity  for  even  a 
significant  glance,  and  he  had  the 
added  embarrassment  of  seeing  that 
she  exhibited  no  surprise  nor  seemed  to 
attach  the  least  importance  to  his  inop- 
portune visit.  In  a  miserable  inde- 
cision he  allowed  himself  to  be  carried 
away  by  the  high-flown  hospitality  of 
his  Spanish  hostess,  and  consented  to 
stay  to  an  early  dinner.  It  was  part 
of  the  infelicity  of  circumstance 
that  the  voluble  Dona  Maria — elect- 
ing him  as  the  distinguished  stranger 
above  the  resident  Fletcher — monopo- 
lised him  and  attached  him  to  her  side. 
She  would  do  the  honours  of  her  house  ; 
she  must  show  him  the  ruins  of  the 
old  Mission  beside  the  corral ;  Don 
Diego  and  Clementina  would  join  them 
presently  in  the  garden.  He  cast  a 
despairing  glance  at  the  placidly  smil- 
ing Clementina,  who  was  apparently 
equally  indifferent  to  the  evident  con- 
straint and  assumed  ease  of  the  man 
beside  her,  and  turned  away  with  Mrs. 
Ramirez. 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  gallery  so 
deep  that  the  receding  voices  and  foot 
steps  of  Grant  and  his  hostess  in  the 
long  passage  were  distinctly  heard 
until  they  reached  the  end.  Then 
Fletcher  arose  with  an  inarticulate 
exclamation.  Clementina  instantly 
put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  glanced 
around  the  gallery,  extended  her  hand 
to  him  and  saying  ^*  Come,"  half -led, 
half-dragged  him  into  the  passage. 
To  the  right  she  turned  and  pushed 
open  the  door  of  a  small  room  that 
seemed  a  combination  of  boudoir  and 
oratory,  lit  by  a  French  window  open- 
ing to  the  garden,  and  flanked  by  a 
large  black  and  white  crucifix  with  a 
jyrie  Dieu  beneath  it.  Closing  the 
door  behind  them  she  turned  and  faced 
her  companion.  But  it  was  no  longer 
the  face  of  the  woman  who  had  been 
sitting  in  the  gallery  ;  it  was  the  face 
that  had  looked  back  at  her  from  the 
mirror  at  Tasajara  the  night  that  Grant 
had  left  her — eager,  flushed,  material 
with  commonplace  excitement ! 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


13 


**Lige  Curtis,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  passionately, 
**  Lige  Curtis,  whom  you  thought 
dead  !  Lige  Curtis,  whom  you  once 
pitied,  condoled  with  and  despised ! 
Lige  Curtis  !  whose  lands  and  property 
have  enriched  you !  Lige  Curtis  !  who 
would  have  shared  it  with  you  freely 
at  the  time,  but  whom  your  father  jug- 
gled and  defrauded  of  it !  Lige  Curtis, 
branded  by  him  as  a  drunken  outcast 
and  suicide  !     Lige  Curtis " 

"Hush!''  She  clapped  her  little 
hand  over  his  mouth  with  a  quick  but 
awkward  school-girl  gesture — incon- 
ceivable to  any  who  had  known  her 
usual  languid  elegance  of  motion — 
and  held  it  there.  He  struggled 
angrily,  impatiently,  reproachfully,  and 
then  with  a  sudden  characteristic 
weakness  that  seemed  as  much  of  a 
revelation  as  her  once  hoydenish 
manner — kissed  it,  when  she  let  it 
drop.  Then  placing  both  her  hands 
still  girlishly  on  her  slim  waist  and 
curtseying  grotesquely  before  him,  she 
said  :  "  Lige  Curtis  !  Oh,  yes  !  Lige 
Curtis  who  swore  to  do  everything  for 
me !  Lige  Curtis,  who  promised  to  give 
up  liquor  for  me — who  was  to  leave 
Tasajara  for  me  !  Lige  Curtis  who 
was  to  reform,  and  keep  his  land  as  a 
nest-egg  for  us  both  in  the  future,  and 
then  who  sold  it — and  himself — and 
me — to  dad  for  a  glass  of  whisky  ! 
Lige  Curtis  who  disappeared,  and  then 
let  us  think  he  was  dead,  only  that  he 
might  attack  us  out  of  the  ambush  of 
his  grave ! " 

"  Yes,  but  think  what  /  have  suf- 
fered all  these  years — not  for  the 
cursed  land — you  know  I  never  cared 
for  that — but  for  you — you,  Clemen- 
tina—  you  rich,  admired,  by  every  one  ; 
idolised,  held  far  above  me — me,  the 
forgotten  outcast,  the  wretched  sui- 
cide— and  yet  the  man  to  whom  you 
had  once  plighted  your  troth.  Which 
of  those  greedy  fortune-hunters  whom 
my  money — my  life-blood  as  you 
might  have  thought  it  was — attracted 
to  you,  did  you  care  to  tell  that  you 
had  ever  slipped  out  of  the  little  gar- 
den gate  at  Sidon  to  meet  that  outcast ! 


Do  you  wonder  that  as  the  years 
passed  and  you  were  happy,  /  did  not 
choose  to  be  so  forgotten  ?  Do  you 
wonder  that  when  you  shut  the  door 
on  the  past  /  managed  to  open  it  again 
— if  only  a  little  way — that  its  light 
might  startle  you  ]  " 

Yet  she  did  not  seem  startled  or 
disturbed,  and  remained  only  looking 
at  him  critically. 

"  You  say  that  you  have  suffered," 
she  replied  with  a  smile.  "  You  don't 
look  it !  Your  hair  is  white,  but  it  is 
becoming  to  you,  and  you  are  a  hand- 
somer man,  Lige  Curtis,  than  you  were 
when  I  first  met  you ;  you  are  finer," 
she  went  on  still  regarding  him, 
"  stronger  and  healthier  than  you  were 
five  years  ago ;  you  are  rich  and  pros- 
perous, you  have  everything  to  make 
you  happy,  but — " — here  she  laughed  a 
little,  held  out  both  her  hands,  taking 
his  and  holding  his  arms  apart  in  a 
rustic,  homely  fashion — "  but  you  are 
still  the  same  old  Lige  Curtis  !  It  was 
like  you  to  go  off  and  hide  yourself  in 
that  idiotic  way ;  it  was  like  you  to 
let  the  property  slide  in  that  stupid, 
unselfish  fashion ;  it  was  like  you  to 
get  real  mad,  and  say  all  those  mean, 
silly  things  to  dad,  that  didn't  hurt 
him — in  your  regular  looney  style — 
for  rich  or  poor,  drunk  or  sober,  ragged 
or  elegant,  plain  or  handsome — you're 
always  the  same  Lige  Curtis  !  " 

In  proportion  as  that  material, 
practical,  rustic  self — which  nobody 
but  Lige  Curtis  had  ever  seen — came 
back  to  her,  so  in  proportion  the  ir- 
resolute, wavei'ing,  weak  and  emotional 
vagabond  of  Sidon  came  out  to  meet 
it.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  vague  smile, 
his  five  years  of  childish  resentment, 
albeit  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
man  mentally  and  morally  her  superior, 
melted  away.  He  drew  her  towards 
him,  yet  at  the  same  moment  a  quick 
suspicion  returned. 

"  Well,  and  what  are  you  doing 
here  ?  Has  this  man  who  has  followed 
you  any  right,  any  claim  upon  you  ?  " 

"  None  but  what  you  in  your  folly 
have  forced  upon  him !  You  have 
made  him  father's  ally.     I  don't  know 


14 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


why  he  came  here.  I  only  know  why 
/  did — to  find  you  !  " 

"  You  suspected  then  1 " 

''Yhnew!     Hushl" 

The  returning  voices  of  Grant  and 
of  Mrs.  Ramirez  were  heard  in  the 
courtyard.  Clementina  made  a  warn- 
ing yet  girlishly  mirthful  gesture,  again 
caught  his  hand,  drew  him  quickly  to 
the  French  window,  slipped  through  it 
with  him  into  the  garden,  where  they 
were  quickly  lost  in  the  shadows  of  a 
ceanothus  hedge. 

"  They  have  probably  met  Don  Jos6 
in  the  orchard,  and  as  he  and  Don 
Diego  have  business  together,  Dona 
Clementina  has  without  doubt  gone  to 
her  room  and  left  them.  For  you  are 
not  very  entertaining  to  the  ladies  to- 
day— you  two  cahalleros  I  You  have 
much  politics  together,  eh? — or  you 
have  discussed  and  disagreed,  eh  ?  I 
will  look  for  the  Senorita,  and  let  you 
go,  Don  Distraido  !  " 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Grant's 
apologies  and  attempts  to  detain  her 
were  equally  feeble — as  it  seemed  to 
him  that  this  was  the  only  chance  he 
might  have  of  seeing  her  except  in 
company  with  Fletcher.  As  Mrs. 
Ramirez  left  he  lit  a  cigarette  and 
listlessly  walked  up  and  down  the 
gallery.  But  Clementina  did  not 
come,  neither  did  his  hostess  return. 
A  subdued  step  in  the  passage  raised 
his  hopes — it  was  only  the  grizzled 
major  domo,  to  show  him  his  room 
that  he  might  prepare  for  dinner. 


He  followed  mechanically  down  the 
long  passage  to  a  second  corridor. 
There  was  a  chance  that  he  might 
meet  Clementina,  but  he  reached  his 
room  without  encountering  any  one. 
It  was  a  large  vaulted  apartment  with 
a  single  window,  a  deep  embrasure  in 
the  thick  wall  that  seemed  to  focus 
like  a  telescope  some  forgotten,  se- 
questered part  of  the  leafy  garden. 
While  washing  his  hands,  gazing  ab- 
sently at  the  green  vignette  framed  by 
the  dark  opening,  his  attention  was 
drawn  to  a  movement  of  the  foliage, 
stirred  apparently  by  the  rapid  passage 
of  two  half -hidden  figures.  The  quick 
flash  of  a  feminine  skirt  seemed  to  in- 
dicate the  coy  flight  of  some  romping 
maid  of  the  caaa,  and  the  pursuit  and 
struggle  of  her  vaquero  swain.  To  a 
despairing  lover  even  the  spectacle  of 
innocent,  pastoral  happiness  in  others 
is  not  apt  to  be  soothing,  and  Grant 
was  turning  impatiently  away  when  he 
suddenly  stopped  with  a  rigid  face  and 
quickly  approached  the  window.  In 
her  struggles  with  the  unseen  Corydon, 
the  clustering  leaves  seemed  to  have 
yielded  at  the  same  moment  with  the 
coy  Chloris,  and  parting — disclosed  a 
stolen  kiss  !  Grant's  hand  lay  like  ice 
against  the  wall.  For,  disengaging 
Fletcher's  arm  from  her  waist  and  free- 
ing her  skirt  from  the  foliage,  it  was 
the  calm,  passionless  Clementina  her- 
self who  stepped  out,  and  moved  pen- 
sively towards  the  casa. 


[To  he  continued,) 


15 


TALMA 


At  the  end  of  the  year  1776  the 
pupils  of  M.  Yerdier's  boarding-school 
in  Paris  were  about  to  be  dispersed 
for  their  Christmas  holidays.  Besides 
the  usual  distribution  of  prizes  the 
occasion  was  to  be  marked  by  an 
event  of  special  importance  in  the 
performance  of  a  tragedy  which  the 
worthy  schoolmaster  had  written  for 
his  scholars.  Of  the  details  of  this 
play,  which  was  called  Tamj&rlan^  or 
of  how  the  youthful  actors  acquitted 
themselves  before  their  friends  and 
relatives,  history  is  silent.  One 
episode  only  is  preserved  to  us, — an 
unrehearsed  effect  which  occurred  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  piece  when  a 
very  small  boy,  whose  part  it  was  to 
relate  the  manner  in  which  his  friend 
had  died,  broke  down  sobbing  in  the 
midst  of  his  recital  and  had  to  be  car- 
ried from  the  stage.  This  child  of 
ten  years  was  the  son  of  a  French 
dentist  who  resided  in  Cavendish 
Square,  and  enjoyed  a  consider- 
able practice  in  the  West  End  of 
London.  The  boy  was  called  Fran9ois 
Joseph  Talma ;  a  surname  so  un-French 
that  at  a  later  period,  when  its  bearer 
had  become  famous,  quite  a  serious 
controversy  arose  among  etymological 
experts,  some  maintaining  that  Talma 
was  Arabic  in  origin,  others  that  it 
was  Dutch. 

But  Frangois  Joseph's  sojourn  at 
M.  Yerdier's  was  brought  to  a  pre- 
mature close  by  the  boy's  Yoltairean 
enthusiasm,  derived  froni  his  father, 
which  he  exhibited  in  a  very  un- 
orthodox outburst  against  his  spiritual 
director  on  the  occasion  of  the  re- 
fusal by  the  Church  to  accord  burial 
rites  to  the  Philosopher  of  Ferney. 
The  offence  was  unpardonable,  and 
young  Talma  was  in  consequence  re- 
moved from  M.  Yerdier's  after  a  stay 
of  not  more  than   three  years.     Re- 


joining his  father  in  London,  he 
amused  himself,  together  with  other 
young  compatriots,  by  giving  recita- 
tions and  dramatic  sketches  from  the 
French  classical  repertory  at  the  houses 
of  those  persons  of  quality  with  whom 
it  was  then  the  vogue  to  affect  things 
Parisian.  And  so  successful  were 
these  private  representations  that 
some  of  the  more  adventurous  among 
the  amateurs  conceived  the  idea  of 
establishing  a  regular  French  play- 
house in  London.  Subscriptions  came 
in  readily  enough  from  the  West  End ; 
but  when,  more  money  being  still 
needed,  an  attempt  was  made  to  canvass 
the  City,  the  ambassadors  discovered 
their  mistake,  and  had  to  retire  empty- 
handed,  after  hearing  some  very  blunt 
expressions  of  opinion.  The  centre  of 
wealth  was  also  the  centre  of  pa- 
triotism 3  and  the  notion  of  a  French 
theatre  in  the  British  capital,  accord- 
ing to  Talma,^  "  was  revolting  to  the 
true  sons  of  Albion."  As  a  set-off 
to  this  repulse  Talma  was  pressed  by 
various  persons  of  eminence, — among 
others,  he  says,  by  Burke,  Fox,  and 
Sheridan — to  adopt  the  English  stage 
as  his  profession.  The  proposal  was 
flattering  and  the  prospect  favourable, 
for  the  succession  to  Garrick  was  still 
open  ;  but  the  father  was  minded  that 
his  son  should  qualify  himself  to  prac- 
tise as  a  dentist,  and  early  in  the  year 
1784  the  youth  was  sent  back  to  Paris, 
"  travelling  in  one  of  those  six-horse 
coaches  which  accomplish  the  journey 
between  London  and  Dover  in  so  rapid 
and  pleasant  a  fashion." 

This  sojourn  of  five  years  in  London 
deserves  mention  because  it  had  the 
effect  of  initiating  Talma  at  the  most 
impressionable  age  into  the  beauties 
of  the  English  drama,  and  inspiring 

^  Mimoires  de  Talma^  recueillis  par  Alex- 
andre Dumas. 


16 


Talma. 


him  with  that  admiration  for  Shake- 
spearian models  which  counted  for  so 
much  in  his  after  life.  Though  he 
has  left  no  record  of  the  event,  it  is 
possible  that  he  now  saw  for  the  first 
time  Mrs.  Siddons  and  the  elder  Kem- 
ble,  the  latter  of  whom  he  entertained 
at  his  house  in  Paris  some  twenty 
years  later. 

At  all  events,  Talma  returned  to 
the  French  capital  with  little  taste 
for  dentistry  and  with  a  great  passion 
for  acting.  Naturally,  in  spite  of  pro- 
fessional duties,  he  gravitated  towards 
literary  and  dramatic  centres.  Madame 
de  Genlis  was  struck  with  his  powers 
as  a  reciter ;  Mole,  who  was  then  play- 
ing Almaviva  in  the  Mariage  de 
Figaro,  took  him  up,  gave  him  the 
entree  of  the  green-room,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  Beaumarchais.  Opinion 
on  the  young  man's  future  was,  of 
course,  divided ;  and  in  deciding  to 
follow  a  theatrical  career  Talma,  like 
other  great  actors,  went  contrary  to 
the  more  prudent  counsels  of  his 
family.  His  first  appearance,  in  1787, 
seemed,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  justify 
the  doubters,  for  as  S^ide  in  the 
tragedy  of  Mahomet  the  debutant  at- 
tracted very  little  notice ,  the  Press 
spoke  the  usual  commonplaces  about  a 
promising  young  actor, — that  was  all. 
He  had  not  taken  the  town  by  storm 
as  Rachel  did  at  her  debut  years  after- 
wards. And  from  fchis  time  till  1789, 
when  he  was  elected  a  societaire  of 
the  Com6die  Frangaise,  Talma  in  the 
occasional  characters  which  he  person- 
ated was  given  no  opportunity  of 
"  creating  "  a  great  part.  He  waited, 
however,  and  worked, — worked  prin- 
cipally with  David  the  painter,  whose 
friend  he  had  become  and  with  whom 
he  studied  the  antique,  reflecting  how 
incongruous  it  was  that  the  heroes  of 
Greece  and  Rome  should  be  repre- 
sented on  the  French  stage  in  powder 
and  lace  and  knee-breeches. 

Now  it  happened  about  this  time 
that  Talma  had  been  cast  for  the  part 
of  a  tribune  in  Brutus,- — a  chance 
which  enabled  him  to  make  an  ex- 
periment meditated  by  more  than  one 


of  his  predecessors,  but  not  hitherto 
adventured.  So  David  and  Talma 
conspired  together,  and  the  little  plot 
succeeded  well  enough,  —  with  the 
public  at  least,  to  whom  a  Roman 
tribune  in  a  real  toga  and  with  bare 
arms  and  legs  was  a  delightful  novelty. 
With  the  other  members  of  the  com- 
pany, however,  it  was  quite  a  different 
thing.  Jealous  of  new  ideas,  imbued 
with  the  traditions  of  their  theatre, 
they  were  indignant  at  this  innova- 
tion ;  the  actresses,  in  particular,  were 
shocked  at  the  unseemly  display  of 
arms  and  legs.  "  Gracious  Heavens  !  " 
exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Contat  with  a 
little  scream,  as  Talma  emerged  from  his 
dressing-room,  ready  to  go  on.  "How 
hideous  he  is  !  For  all  the  world  like 
one  of  those  old  statues !  '*  And  a 
few  minutes  afterwards,  Madame 
Vestris,  who  happened  to  be  on  the 
stage  in  the  same  scene,  took  an  op- 
portunity of  saying  to  him  in  an 
undertone,  "  Why,  Talma,  your  arms 
are  bare  !  "  **  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  like 
the  Romans."  "Why,  Talma,  you 
have  no  trousers  on  ! "  "  No,  the 
Romans  did  not  wear  them."  "  Co- 
chon  I "  ejaculated  poor  Madame  Yes- 
tris,  and  her  feelings  overpowering  her, 
she  had  to  go  off  the  stage.  Even 
with  revolution  in  the  air,  as  it  was 
in  1789,  it  took  some  little  time  to 
habituate  Parisian  players  and  play- 
goers to  so  radical  a  change.  The 
next  actor,  one  of  the  old  school,  who 
filled  a  similar  part,  made  great  diffi- 
culties about  donning  the  toga.  He 
was  induced  to  do  so  eventually,  but 
only  on  the  condition  that  two  pockets 
should  be  let  into  the  back  of  the 
garment, — one  of  these  being  for  his 
handkerchief,  the  other  for  his  snuff- 
box ! 

This  beginning,  then,  of  reform  in 
costume  Talma  made  at  a  time  when  he 
was  the  youngest  and  least  important 
member  of  Moli^re's  House ;  and  for 
this  very  reason  perhaps  he  was  able 
to  take  a  step  which  in  a  more  promi- 
nent man  would  have  met  with  less 
indulgence. 

Greater  things  ''than  this,  however, 


Talma. 


17 


were  at  hand.     In  November,   1789, 
the    Ck)ni6die,    yielding    to    repeated 
pressure  from  the  author,  consented  to 
produce  the  tragedy  of  Charles  IX.  by 
Marie  Joseph  Ch^nier,  which  had  been 
accepted    some   time    previously.     In 
the  existing  state  of  public  feeling  the 
play  was  undoubtedly  risky;   and  it 
was    natural   that   the    Court    party 
should  strenuously  resist  the  representa- 
tion of  a  piece  which  displayed  a  king 
of  France  in  so  odious  a  light.     But 
the  authority  exercised  over  the  Come- 
die  by  the  Gentlemen-in- Waiting  seems 
to  have  been  shared  in  an  indefinite 
way    by  the    Municipal    Council    of 
Paris,  with  the  result  that  the  two 
neutralised    each    other.     The   Court 
prohibited,  but  the  Mayor  sanctioned, 
and    in    the    end    Charles    IX.    was 
produced.     Among   the   actors   them- 
selves,  however,  there  was  a  repug- 
nance to   undertake   a  part  so   sure 
to  be  unpopular  as  that  of  Charles. 
This  was  TaJma's  chance  ;  he  accepted 
the   part   which  others   refused,   and 
made  his  name  in  the  character  of  the 
weak,  hypocritical,  and  cruel  king  who, 
influenced   by  Catherine   de   Medici s, 
sanctioned,  and  even  assisted  in,  the 
Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.     This 
was  Talma's  real  debut y  an  impersona- 
tion great  in  itself,  and  rendered  still 
more  startling  by  the  circumstances  of 
the  moment.     So  strongly  indeed  were 
the   feelings  of   the  au(Hence   stirred 
that,  after  a  few   performances,  the 
Town  Council,  not  yet  wholly  revolu- 
tionary, was  induced  by  the  Clergy  to 
prohibit  the  play.     For  a  while  popu- 
lar  indignation    smouldered,    till    at 
length,  on  an  evening  in  July  1790, 
it  flamed  out  in  one  of  those  scenes 
which  so  often  converted  the  stage  of 
the  Th^&tre   Frangais  into   the  most 
riotous  of  political  platforms.     On  this 
particular    occasion    Epimenides    was 
being  played  to  a   full  house,  which 
included  the  deputies  from  Provence 
now  present  in  Paris.    By  pre-arrange- 
ment,    and    prompted    by    Mirabeau, 
these  spectators  interrupted   the  per- 
formance  with  loud  cries  for  Charles 
IX.     To    pacify    them,    one    of    the 
No.  385. — VOL.  Lxv. 


actors,  Naudet  by  name,  advanced  to 
the  footlights  and  explained  that 
Charles  IX.  could  not  be  given  be- 
cause Madame  Vestris  who  played 
Catherine  de  M^dicis  was  seriously 
indisposed,  while  Saint-Prix  who  took 
the  CardinaFs  part  was  also  laid  up. 
But  the  actors  were  known  to  be 
Royalist  and  reactionary ;  the  excuse 
was  regarded  as  a  subterfuge,  and  the 
uproar  continued.  Then  Talma  came 
forward,  and  promised  that  Clwurles 
IX.  should  be  played  the  next  evening, 
that  Madame  Vestris  would  make  an 
effort  to  perform  her  part,  and  that 
the  Cardinal's  part  should  be  read. 
Thus  peace  was  restored,  and  next 
evening  Ch6nier's  play  was  performed 
before  an  audience  inspired  by  the 
presence  of  Mirabeau,  Danton,  and 
Camille  des  Moulins.. 

The   affair,   however,   did   not   end 
here.      Talma's    conduct    was    hotly 
resented  by  his  colleagues,  who  were 
furious    that    he    should    have    com- 
promised them,  as  they  averred,  upon 
his     own     responsibility.       Personal 
jealousy    embittered    political    differ- 
ences.     The    point    of    honour    was- 
settled  between  Naudet  and  Talma  in 
the  usual  way,  and  fortunately  with 
the  usual  result ;    and,  what  was  more 
serious,  by  an  almost  unanimous  vote 
of  the  sociHaires  the  offending  member 
was  expelled.     The  justice  or  injustice 
of  this  measure  was  argued  on   both 
sides  in  copious  manifestoes  ;  but  for 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  case  the 
Parisian  public  cared  little.     It  was 
sufficient    for    them    that    Talma,    a 
friend   of   liberty   and    progress,   had 
been  censured  and   cast  out    by  the 
upholders  of   privilege   and  tradition. 
He  became  at  once  a  popular   hero. 
"  We  thought,"  says  the  actor  Fleury 
in   his    Memoirs,    "  that    Talma   had 
partisans  ;  we  discovered  that  he  had 
a   whole   nation   at   his   back."     The 
expulsion,  whether  justifiable  or  not, 
was  in  short  a  blunder  ;  and  it  Zed  to 
such  disturbances  that  iDy  order  of  the 
Mayor   the   theatre   was  closed  until 
the   members   had   agreed   to  receive 
Talma  back;  which  they  did  with  a 

c 


18 


Talma. 


very  bad  grace,  and  revenged  them- 
selves by  allotting  him  the  most 
insignificant  characters. 

Meanwhile  as  the  situation  outside 
grew  daily  more  acute,  so  within  the 
Com^die  Fran9aise  the  political  rupture 
became  more  distinct.  Talma  was 
not  the  only  Patriot  in  the  company  ; 
here  also  there  was  a  Red  Faction 
although  a  minority.  The  house  in 
the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain  (the 
original  home  of  the  Com6die,  on  the 
site  of  the  present  Od6on)  was  divided 
against  itself.  In  this  state  of  things 
the  dissentients  accepted  an  invitation 
from  the  directors  of  what  was  then 
the  Th^tre  du  Palais  Royal,  whither 
accordingly  Talma  migrated,  accom- 
panied by  Madame  Vestris,  Monval, 
Dugazon  and  others.  Thus  a  rival 
Theatre  Frangais  was  set  up  in  the 
Rue  Richelieu,  where  the  Frangais  now 
stands.  The  first  effort  of  the  new 
combination,  Henri  VIII,  by  Ch^nier, 
was  not  fortunate,  in  spite  of  Talma 
as  the  King,  Madame  Vestris  as  Anne 
Boleyn,  and  Mademoiselle  Desgarcins 
as  Jane  Seymour;  but  Corneille's 
Cid,  with  Talma  in  the  chief  part,  was 
more  successful.  On  the  whole  the 
rival  theatres  \^ere  pretty  evenly 
balanced  ;  and  Talma  soon  found  him- 
self strong  enough  to  attempt  what 
his  mind  had  long  been  set  on, — a 
Shakespearian,  or  rather  quasi-Shake- 
spearian, character  in  the  part  of  King 
John  in  Ducis'  play  of  Jean  Sans-terre, 
to  be  followed  after  a  short  while  by 
the  same  author's  Othello, 

At  this  point  the  tragedian's  pro- 
fessional career  was  crossed  by  a 
domestic  event  of  some  consequence, — 
his  marriage  with  his  first  wife, 
Mademoiselle  Julie  Careau,  a  lady 
who  was  several  years  his  senior,  a 
lady  of  wealth,  of  wit,  of  literary  and 
political  tastes.  Whatever  may  have 
been  the  motives  of  the  match,  and  it 
was  generally  represented  as,  on  the 
man's  side  at  least,  solely  one  of  con- 
venience, its  effect  was  to  relieve 
Talma  from  a  growing  load  of  debt. 
To  the  expenses  usual  and  almost 
inevitable  for  a  young  man  when  first 


admitted  to  membership  of  the  Com^die, 
there  was  added  in  Talma's  case  a 
natural  tendency  to  extravagance.  He 
was  one  of  those  whose  ideas  of  economy 
are  limited  to  religiously  making  every 
day  an  entry  of  fresh  liabilities, 
regarding  this  as  an  excellent  method 
of  keying  accounts.  But  besides  its 
financial  advantages,  the  marriage 
resulted  also  in  bringing  Taima  into 
immediate  connection  with  public 
affairs.  For  Madame  Talma's  house 
in  the  Rue  Chantereine  supplied  one 
of  the  leading  scdone  of  Republican 
sentiment.  Here  mustered  Vergniaud, 
Condorcet,  Roland,  Dumouriez,  and 
other  chiefs  of  the  Girondists ;  there 
was  also  a  literary  and  artistic  element, 
represented  by  men  like  Arnault, 
Ducis,  and  David,  but  politics  pre- 
dominated. Talma  himself  seems  to 
have  been  rather  the  victim  of  these 
brilliant  gatherings,  if  we  may  believe 
the  account  left  us  by  his  second  wife, 
who  describes  him  as  being  in  the" 
habit,  when  he  returned  from  the 
theatre,  of  avoiding  the  noise  and  the 
lights  up  stairs  by  taking  refuge  in  the 
kitchen,  where  his  old  cook  gave  him 
soup  and  sympathy.^  None  the  less 
he  experienced  the.  inconveniences  of 
being  a  politician  malgre  lui ;  for  as 
the  Girondists  declined  before  the 
advance  of  the  Terrorists,  the  house  in 
the  Rue  Chantereine  became  suspected. 
One  evening  a  f^te  was  being  given 
here  to  General  Dumouriez,  who  had 
retmmed  to  Paris  after  his  victory  at 
Valmy.  Music  and  song  were  in  full 
swing,  when  suddenly  the  door  opened 
and  a  figiu*e  appeared  which  sent  a 
shudder  of  repugnance  and  fear  through 
the  whole  company.  This  kill-joy  was 
Marat  who,  with  two  attendants,  had 
come  nominally  to  seek  an  interview 
with  Dumouriez  on  urgent  public 
business,  in  reality,  perhaps,  to  see 
what  material  might  be  collected  for 
accusations.  The  uninvited  guest  met 
with  a  cold  reception,  in  revenge  for 
which  he  published  in  V Ami  du 
Feuple,  and   laid   before  the  Jacobin 

1  ^ttides  sur  VArt  TTUdtral,  par  Madame 
Veuve  Talma. 


Talma, 


19 


Club,  a  strong  indictment  expressive 
of  his  indignation  at  finding  **  the  son 
of  Thalia  feasting  the  son  of  Mars." 
Nor  was  the  incident  forgotten ;  long 
after  the  Tribune  of  the  People  had 
fallen  beneath  the  knife  of  Charlotte 
Corday,  Talma  lived  in  constant  alarm, 
afraid  to  venture  forth  at  night,  and 
expecting  that  each  day  would  bring 
the  fatal  decree  of  arrest. 

There  is,  in  fact,  no  more  lament- 
able sight  than  the  Theatre  Fran^ais 
between   the   years    1793   and    1795. 
The   secession  from  the  old  Comedie 
has    been    already    mentioned.      The 
theatre  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain, 
conservative  and  aristocratic,    was   a 
perpetual  offence  to  the  ruling  powers  ; 
and  so  before  long  it  was  closed  on  the 
charge  of  incivism,  and  its  actors  and 
actresses  lodged  in  prison  where  they 
remained  for  the   most   part  till  the 
fall   of   Robespierre.      Their   persecu- 
tions and  perils  do  not  belong  to  this 
subject ;  bub  there  is  one  little  inci- 
dent  concerning    Talma, — a    graceful 
pendant  to  that  instance  of  brotherly 
love  which  M.  Sardou  has  not  been 
allowed  to  commemorate  in  Thermidor. 
Among  the  members  of  the  Com6die 
who  were  personally  antagonistic  to 
Talma,  none  was  more  conspicuous  than 
Fleury.     Fleury,  as  a    Royalist,  was 
now  in  prison,  and  somehow  a  docu- 
ment in  his  handwriting, — a  pedigree 
establishing  the  kinship  of  Charlotte 
Corday  with  the  great  Corneille — had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  rascal  who, 
recognising  the  value  of  this  piece  of 
paper,  determined  to  levy  blackmail, 
Meeting  Talma  he  inquired  for  the  ad- 
dress  of   Fleury's    sister,    pretending 
that  he  had  a  bill  against  Fleury ;  but 
Talma,  knowing  his  man  and  suspect- 
ing  the   nature   of  the  business,  de- 
clined to  give  him  information.     He 
offered,   however,   to    settle    the  bill 
himself.     After  long  haggling,  and  at 
a   considerable  price,  the  negotiation 
was   effected,  and  thus.  Talma  saved 
his  confrh'e  from  a  fate  not  doubtful 
had  this  glorification  of  Charlotte  been 
laid  before  Collot  d'Herbois — once  an 
actor  himself,  and  now  the  most  im- 


placable enemy  of  the  profession.  It 
is  satisfactory  to  learn  that  this  good 
deed  afterwards  came  indirectly  to 
Fleury 's  knowledge,  and  helped  to- 
wards the  reconciliation  which  was 
ultimately  accomplished. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  Comedie  having 
been  closed,  the  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Richelieu,   where   Talma  played,  con- 
tinued to  exist  on  the  vilest  sufferance. 
Styled  now  the  Theatre  of  Liberty  and 
Equality,  it  justified  its  title  by  the 
most  outrageous  travesties  of  patriot- 
ism.     Not    only    was    its    repertory 
{BrutuSi   William  Tell^  The    Death    of 
CcesoTj  and  the  like)  carefully  chosen 
so  as  to  inculcate  the  virtue  of  tyran- 
nicide, but  not  even  a  word  suggestive 
of  the  old  regime  was  admitted,  and 
comte^  baron,  marquis  were  expunged, 
wherever  they  occurred,  and  replaced, 
withoTtt  regard  to  rhyme  or  rhythm, 
by  plain  citoyen ;  so  utterly  was  Art 
degraded  to  the  lowest  level  <rf  Sans- 
culottisHL     "  We    had   ceased,"    says 
Talma,  "  to  be  actors  ;  we  had  become 
public  functionaries." 

And  so  things  went  on  until,  with 
the  fall  of  Robespierre,  we  arrive  at 
the  most  momentous  event  in  Talma's 
life. 

"After  the  curtain  had  fallen  at 
the  close  of  the  Troi%  Coueins,  Michaut 
entered  the  green-room  accompanied  by 
a  young  man  of  twenty-two  or  so  in 
the  uniform  of  a  captain  of  artillery. 
I  observed  his  features,  which  were 
striking ;  he  was  small,  thin,  very 
dark  —  almost  black  ;  his  long  hair 
fell  on  both  sides  of  his  head,  almost 
to  his  shoulders ;  his  eyes  were  keen 
and  penetrating,  and  every  now  and 
then  assumed  a  searching  fixity."  The 
young  man  was  Napoleon  Buonaparte, 
and  these  words  contain  Talma's  first 
impression  of  him.  They  refer  to  the 
year  1792,  but  the  acquaintance  begun 
in  that  year  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  resumed,  owing  no  doubt  to 
Napoleon's  absence  from  Paris,  until 
the  closing  days  of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 
At  that  time  the  two  must  have  met 
frequently,  either  in  the  salon  of 
Madame  Tallien,  or  in  David's  studio, 

c  2 


20 


Talma 


or  in  Talma*s  own  house  which  formed 
a  refuge  for  the  impossible  people  of 
all  parties,  giving  simultaneous  shelter 
to  a  Royalist  (concealed  in  the  attic) 
and  to  a  Terrorist  (hidden  in  the 
cellar).  The  moment  for  the  "whiff 
of  grape-shot"  had  not  yet  arrived, 
and  the  young  Corsican  officer,  out  of 
favour  with  the  Government,  was 
idling  about  in  Paris,  without  money 
and  without  employment,  very  de- 
spondent of  the  future,  and  very  much 
tempted  to  fling  himself  into  the  Seine. 
It  was  now  that  Talma  took  him  up, 
lent  him  books  to  read,  lent  him  money 
too,  it  is  said,  and  procured  him  ad- 
mission to  the  green-room,  a  compli- 
ment to  be  afterwards  repaid  by  the 
entree  of  the  Tuileries.  The  details  of 
this  early  association  are  uncertain  and 
susceptible  of  embroidery  ;  but  the 
fact  remains,  and  accounts  in  some 
measure  for  that  unceasing  interest  in 
the  drama  and  dramatic  literature 
which  marks  the  great  usurper's  whole 
career,  and  might  form  the  subject  of 
an  as  yet  unwritten  Life  of  Napoleon 
as  an  Amateur  of  Letters  and  Art. 

Returning  to  Paris  in  the  December 
of  1797  from  his  victorious  Italian 
campaign,  Buonaparte  bought  from 
Talma  the  house  in  the  Rue  Chan- 
tereine  (hereafter  known  as  the  Rue 
de  la  Yictoire)  and  there  installed 
himself  with  his  wife  Josephine,  en- 
tertaining at  his  table  many  celebrities, 
going  frequently  to  the  theatre  and  to 
the  opera,  and  finally,  on  the  eve  of 
starting  for  his  Egyptian  expedition, 
witnessing  Talma's  performance  of  the 
Macbeth  of  Ducis.  This  latter  took 
place  at  the  Theatre  Feydeau  where 
several  members  of  the  Com^die  were 
now  playing,  and  at  the  same  theatre 
a  few  weeks  later  (May  25th,  1798) 
Talma  sustained  the  part  of  Kaleb  in 
Laya's  Falkland,  an  early  and  (as  it 
proved)  a  premature  specimen  of  the 
Romantic  drama. 

At  length,  after  vicissitudes  which 
it  would  be  long  to  narrate^  the 
scattered  members  of  Moli^re's  House 
were  gathered  together  again  at  the 
Theatre  de  la  Republique,  henceforth 


to  be  theii*  permanent  home.  In  taking 
this  step  the  Minister  of  the  Interior, 
M.  FranQois  de  Neufchateau,  was  sup- 
ported by  all  men  of  letters,  with  the 
notable  exception  of  Beaumarchais, 
who,  now  at  the  close  of  his  life,  advo- 
cated free  competition  as  best  for 
the  interests  of  Art.  But  the  majority 
held  to  the  principle  of  a  subsidised 
theatre,  and  early  in  the  year  1799 
the  company  was  reorganised  with  a 
staff  of  thirty-four  societaires  and  seven 
penaionnaires,  the  doyen  of  the  former 
being  Mol6  and  the  latest  recruit  the 
famous  Mademoiselle  Mars. 

The  close  of  the  Directorial  Era 
forms  (in  the  opinion  of  Talma's  most 
recent  biographer  ^)  a  period  in  the 
tragedian's  career, — a  period  in  which 
his  talent  was  ripening,  though  its 
greatness  was  not  yet  undisputed ;  for 
there  were  still  not  a  few  who  con- 
trasted him  unfavourably  with  his 
predecessor  Lekain,  and  disapproved 
of  his  unconventional  delivery,  his 
fidelity  of  costume,  and  his  realism  of 
gesture. 

The  years  1799  to  1803  are  not 
marked  by  many  new  "  creations," 
partly  because,  brilliant  as  was  the 
company  at  the  Com6die,  there  was  an 
exceptional  dearth  of  talent  among 
dramatic  authors  ;  partly  because 
Talma  was  more  anxious  to  perfect 
himself  in  standard  parts,  such  as 
Orestes  or  Nero,  than  to  essay  new 
ones ;  for,  like  our  own  Garrick,  he 
was  persuaded  that  the  lifetime  of  man 
is  not  enough  for  the  study  of  certain 
characters.  Meanwhile  at  La  Mal- 
maison  and  at  St.  Cloud,  where  the 
First  Consul  and  his  family  occupied 
themselves  almost  as  much  with  the 
drama  as  with  politics,  Talma's  services 
were  in  constant  request — sometimes 
to  coach  the  Buonapartes  for  their 
amateur  performances,  sometimes  to 
join  with  Mademoiselles  Georges  and 
Duchesnois  in  playing  Corneille  and 
Racine.  For  a  moment,  indeed,  his 
supremacy  was  seriously  challenged  by 
Lafon,  a  younger  member  of  the  com- 

^  M.  Alfred  Copin's  Talma  et  la  Revolution 
and  Tahna  et  V Empire, 


Talvia. 


n 


pany,  who  had  attained  great  popu- 
larity, especially  in  chevaleresque 
characters  such  as  Achilles  or  Oros- 
manes.  This  Lafon  seems  to  have 
been  little  blest  with  modesty,  and  was 
in  the  habit  of  referring  contemptu- 
ously to  his  rival  as  "  the  other," — a 
fatuity  which  one  day  called  down 
upon  him  a  well-merited  snub.  "  M. 
Lafon,"  said  the  Due  de  Lauraguais, 
**  I  observe  that  you  are  far  too  fre- 
quently the  one,  and  not  sufficiently 
often  the  other, ^'  The  struggle,  how- 
ever, was  short  and  decisive,  and  by 
the  voice  of  the  people  no  less  than  by 
imperial  patronage  Talma's  superiority 
was  established. 

In  relation  to  Napoleon, — a  part  of 
whose  policy  was,  of  course,  to  revive 
the  traditions  of  the  Grand  Monarque, 
— the  Com^die  now  occupied  a  position 
very  similar  to  that  which,  at  its  founda- 
tion, it  had  occupied  towards  Louis 
XIV.  ;  only,  instead  of  being  players- 
in-ordinary  to  the  King,  its  members 
were  now  players-in-ordinary  to  the 
Emperor.  In  this  capacity  the  calls 
made  upon  them  were  frequent  and 
continuous.  Thus,  when  after  his 
victory  at  Austerlitz  Napoleon  had 
returned  to  Paris,  a  brilliant  series 
of  classical  representations  was  in- 
stituted at  St.  Cloud,  in  which  Talma 
bore  all  the  leading  parts. 

To  this  time  may  be  referred  most 
of  those  conversations  between  the 
Emperor  and  his  favourite  actor,  of 
which  fragments  have  come  doy^n  to 
us  on  more  or  less  good  authority. 
The  familiar  legend,  that  Napoleon 
took  lessons  from  Talma  in  the  pose 
and  deportment  suitable  to  imperial 
dignity,  is  sufficiently  refuted  by 
Talma  himself,  when  he  says  that 
so  far  from  needing  instruction,  it 
was  Napoleon  who  laid  down  the 
law  on  these  points.  Very  concisely 
too  and  dogmatically  did  he  lay  it 
down,  as  when  he  thus  criticised 
Talma's  representation  of  Caesar 
in  Le  Mort  de  Pompee:  **You  use 
your  arms  too  much ;  rulers  of  em- 
pires are  not  so  lavish  of  movement  ] 
they  know  that  a  gesture  from  them 


is  an  order,  and  that  a  glance  means 
death."  And  again,  of  Nero  in  Brxtan- 
nicus :  *' You  should  gesticulate  less; 
and  remember  that,  when  persons  of 
high  position  are  agitated  by  passion, 
or  preoccupied  by  weighty  thoughts, 
their  tone  no  doubt  is  slightly  raised, 
but  their  speech  no  less  remains 
natural.  You  and  I,  for  example, 
are  at  this  moment  making  history, 
and  yet  we  are  conversing  in  quite  an 
ordinary  way." 

The  Emperor,  it  is  well  known,  was 
lavish  of  pecuniary  help  to  art  and 
artists.  One  day  Talma  observed  to 
him  that  the  Opera  received  a  larger 
subvention  than  the  Comedie.  **No 
doubt,"  replied  Napoleon  ;  **  but  the 
Opera  is  the  luxury  of  the  nation  ; 
you  are  its  glory." 

After  a  long  provincial  tour  under- 
taken in  1807,  Talma  at  the  end  of 
the  year  assisted  in  the  festivities  held 
at  Fontainebleau   on  the  occasion  of 
the  Queen  of   Westphalia's  marriage. 
In  the  September  of    1808  came  the 
historic  gathering  at  Erfurt, — the  barn 
converted  into  a  theatre,  and  the  beau 
parterre  de  rois.     Then,  released  for  a 
while  from  attendance  at  Court,  Talma 
returned   to    Paris   and   resumed   his 
original  and  favourite  parts  of  Hamlet, 
Othello,   and  Macbeth,  in  the   trage- 
dies of   Ducis.      The  experiment  was 
hazardous,  and  all  the  actor's  immense 
popularity    was    needed    to    carry   it 
through.       For    under    the     Empire, 
partly  from  Napoleon's  predilections, 
partly    from    the    scarcity    of    fresh 
plays,  the  French   stage   was   practi- 
cally     monopolised       \^y      Corneille, 
Racine,  and,   to  a   less   extent,    Vol- 
taire ;     and     the     works     of     these 
masters,  together  with   the   few  and 
not   very  remarkable   productions   of 
contemporary    authors,    had    hitherto 
constituted   the   repertory  of    Talma. 
His    excellence,   indeed,   in   whatever 
part  he  undertook  was  now  a  matter 
of    course,   and   amid  the   consenting 
chorus  of  praise  one  voice  alone  was 
raised    in    opposition,    the    voice    of 
Geoffroy,  the  theatrical  critic  of  the 
Journal  de  r  Empire,  a  trenchant  and 


22 


Talma, 


powerful  writer,  but  a  man  who  seems 
fram  the  first  to  have  been  invincibly 
prejudiced  against  Talma.  That  the 
strictures  of  Geoffrey,  based  mainly 
on  the  degeneracy  of  acting  since 
Lekain'&  day,  were  ludicrously  unjust, 
has  never  been  questioned.  But  even 
Geoffrey,  with  the  best  desire  to  curse, 
was  sometimes  constrained  to  bless; 
and  his  criticism  of  Talma  in  these 
parts  of  Hamlet,  Othello,  and  Macbeth 
(where  no  comparison  with  Lekain  was 
possible)  is  instructive  because  it  is 
directed,  not  against  the  actor, — who 
indeed  is  praised — but  against  the 
author.  The  French  public  were  not 
perhaps  more  prepared  for  Shakespeare 
then  than  twenty  years  earlier,  but 
even  the  most  old-fashioned  critic  had 
come  to  recognise  the  impossibility  of 
Ducis'  compromise.  "  Take  away 
the  barbarian's  form,"-writes  Geof- 
froy — "and  you  take  away  his  good 
points  :  Shakespeare  must  be  left  to  go 
in  his  own  bold  untrammelled  way;"  a 
judgment  which,  though  it  might  have 
been  expressed  in  more  complimentary 
terms,  is  at  any  rate  something  of  an 
advance  on  th«  Voltairean  idea. 

But  the  most  striking  testimony  to 
Talma's  impersonation  of  Hamlet  (his 
favourite  part)  is  that  of  Madame  de 
Stael,  who  had  obtained  leave 
to  come  from  Switzerland  as  far  as 
Lyons,  where  he  was  playing.  The 
ilhistriotB  exile  was  at  this  time  com- 
pleting her  work  on  Germany,  and 
besides  the  appreciation  of  Talma  con- 
tained therein,  she  wrote  him  two 
enthusiastic  letters  singling  out  for 
special  praise  his  rendering  of  the 
Hamlet  of  Ducis  and  of  Orestes  in 
the  Iphigenie  en  Tauride. 

From  Lyons,  Talma  returned  to  his 
duties  at  the  Tuileries  and  St.  Cloud. 
Like  the  other  members  of  the  ComMie, 
he  found  "starring"  in  the  provinces 
a  pleasant  and  profitable  occupation ; 
but  these  absences,  becoming  more 
and  more  fashionable,  had  seriously 
impaired  the  efficiency  of  the  Th^^tre 
Frangais,  where  it  was  often  difficult 
to  get  together  an  adequate  company 
for    some    particular    representation; 


and  it  was  mainly  to  check  these 
abuses  of  the  coTige  system  that 
Napoleon  issued  in  1812  his  famous 
Moscow  decree  settling  the  rights 
and  privileges  of  the  members.  The 
Emperor  was  perhaps  not  conscions, 
and  not  even  Talma  would  have  dared 
to  hint  it  to  him,  that  this  disorgan- 
isation of  the  national  theatre  was 
largely  due  to  his  own  capricious 
demands  upon  the  players ;  for  when, 
after  Lutzen,  he  had  entered  Dresden, 
couriers  were  again  despatched  post- 
haste to  collect  the  actors  and  actresses 
to  that  city,  and  a  second  edition  of 
the  Erfiirt  programme  was  gone 
througl^,  though  this  time  without 
the  parterre  de  rois. 

A  year  later  the  Allies  entered 
Paris,  and  amid  the  general  Bourbon 
reaction  the  Comedie  Fran9aise  made 
haste  to  testify  its  acquiescence  in 
the  new  order  by  presenting  Royalist 
pieces,  or  pieces  with  Royalist  inter- 
polations and  allusions.  On  one  of 
these  nights  when  he  had  been  playing 
Achilles  in  the  Iphighiie  en  Aulide,  it 
was  Talma's  lot  to  come  forward  after 
the  fall  of  the  curtain  and  read  some 
verses  of  welcome  to  the  new  king. 
That  he  did  so  was  made  a  reproach  to 
him  by  those  who  saw  in  his  conduct 
an  act  of  ingratitude  to  his  fallen 
patron  and  benefactor.  The  balance 
of  testimony,  however,  seems  to  prove 
that  the  affair  was  not  premeditated 
on  Talma's  part,  but  was  forced  upon 
him  suddenly  and  against  his  will. 
Indeed,  according  to  Regnier,  the 
situation  was  saved  by  a  marvel- 
lous tour  de  force  of  the  actor,  who, 
in  reading  this  compulsory  laudation 
of  the  Bourbons,  managed  to  infuse 
such  a  melancholy  of  despair  into  his 
tone  and  manner,  that  when  the  end 
was  reached,  instead  of  the  enthusiasm 
appropriate  to  the  occasic«i,-not  a  sound 
was  heard,  the  audience  remaining 
blank  and  silent  as  though  they  had 
listened  to  their  own  death-sentence ! 

Very  delicate  and  difficult  just  now 
both  towards  the  public  and  towards 
their  colleagues,  must  have  been  the 
position    of    those    members   of    the 


Talma, 


23 


Com^die  whom  Napoleon  had  especially 
favoured ;  but  Art,  of  course,  has  its 
exemptions,  and  this  conviction  may 
have  solaced  Talma,^  Mademoiselle 
Georges,  and  Mademoiselle  Mars  in 
their  inevitable  compromise  between 
the  past  and  the  present,  between 
inclination  and  circumstance.  Talma 
himself,  though  he  joined  in  greeting 
Napoleon's  return  from  Elba,  left 
Paris  soon  afterwards  for  the  pro- 
vinces, so  that  he  did  not  witness 
the  second  fall  of  the  Empire.  Nor, 
it  must  be  said,  did  Louis  XVIII. 
show  any  revengeful  spirit  towards- 
Napoleon's  favoorite  ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  summoned  Talma  to  his  presence, 
and  having  congratulated  him  on  his 
skill  graciously  added, — "  And  remem- 
ber, M.  Talma,  I  am  entitled  to  be 
exacting  ;  I  have  seen  Lekain  play." 

Under  these  conditions,  then,  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  an  unrivalled 
popularity,  the  tragedian  entered  upon 
the  last  decade  of  his  life.  A  year  or 
two  before  the  fall  of  Napoleon  he 
had  been«  relieved  by  the  death  of 
Geoff roy  from  the  last  of  those  praisers 
of  the  past  who  bemoaned  themselves 
as  "  bemg  reduced  to  living  upon  their 
recollections,"  and  the  place  of  Geoff  roy 
on  the  Jotarnal  de  iEmpi/re  (which 
with  the  Kestoration  had  become  the 
Journal  des  Behata)  was  filled  by  a 
critic  c^  a  very  different  stamp  in 
Charles  Nodier.  Nodier,  the  learned 
bibliophile  and  naturalist,  the  author 
of  Smarrm  and  joint  author  of  that 
mysterious  Vampire  which  set  young 
Dumas  first  thmking  on  the  employ- 
ment of  the  supernatural, — Nodier,  the 
advocate  of  Romantic  principles  in 
days  before  ever  that  name  had  been 
heard,  was  not  likely  to  find  fault 
with  an  actor  for  departing  from  con- 
ventional methods.  And,  curiously 
enougli,  whereas  to  the  old  school 
Talma's  naturalness  had  been  a  main 
stumbling-Wock,  Nodier  on  the  con- 
trary,— writing  of  his  performance  of 
Ulysses  in  Lebrun's  tragedy  of  that 
name — criticised  his  voice  as  being 
too  artificial,  too  sepulchral.  Nodier' s 
opinion,   however,   in   this   particular 


instance,  must  not  be  taken  as  typical 
either  of  his  own  utterances  or  of  those 
of  others.     It   stands,  in  fact,  almost 
alone  amid  an  admiration  so  universal 
and  so  uniform  that  one  would  hardly 
exaggerate  in  saying  that,  during  the 
last   years   of    his  life.   Talma's   sole 
critic  was  Talma  himself.     And  none 
certainly  could    have  been  sterner  or 
more  exacting ;  for  with  him,  as  with 
all  lovers  of  Art,  self-satisfaction  was 
barred    by   the   consciousness    of    an 
ideal.     Among   the   most   notable   of 
his  impersonations  in  this  period  may 
be   named    Germanicus    in   Arnault's 
tragedy  of  that  name  (1817),  Leicester 
in  Lebrun's  Marie  Sttiart  (1820),  and 
in  1821  the  chief  part  in  the  tragedy 
of  SyUa  by  M.  de  Jouy — a  character 
in  which  as  the  Roman  Dictator  Talma 
presented  the  Parisian  public  with  a 
study  which  vividly  recalled  to  them 
the  fortunes,  and  even  the  features,  of 
their  own  fallen  Dictator.     As   Dan- 
ville  in   the   Ucole   des    VieiUards  by 
Casimir  Delavigne  he  essayed  in  1823 
a  comedy-character,— or  rather  a  char- 
acter in  comedy.     Twice  before  in  his 
career  Talma  had  taken  similar  parts 
with  success,  and  he  was  always  said 
to    have    had    an    ambition    to    play 
Moli^re ;    but    the  traditions   of    the 
French  stage  drew  so  distinct  a  line 
between    Tragedy   and    Comedy  that 
his   experiments    in    the   latter  must 
only  be   regarded  as  meant  to  show 
what  he  couM  have  dojie.     Finally  in 
1826  he  appeared  for  the  last  time  as 
Charles  YI.  in  Delaville's  tragedy, — a 
character  in  which  his  representation 
of  the  King's  madness  is  spoken  of  by 
those  who  witnessed  it  as  a  master- 
piece of  pathos.     In  October  of  1826 
Talma    succumbed     to     an     internal 
malady  from  which  he  had   long  suf- 
fered,   and    his   death, — the   news   of 
which  interrupted  Fr^d^rick  Lemaitre's 
wedding  festival — was  felt  as  a  per- 
sonal loss  by  the  public,  who  through- 
out the  illness  of  their  favourite  actor 
had    insisted    every   evening    at    the 
Com^die    Fran^aise,   before  the   play 
began,  on  having  the  daily  bulletin  of 
his  health  read  out  to  them. 


24 


Talma. 


From   1789  to  1826  Talma,  besides 
his      constant      representations       of 
standard   characters,   had    "created" 
seventy- one    new    parts.     As   an   ex- 
ponent  of    the  masterpieces  of    Cor- 
iieille  and  Racine  he  was  the  successor, 
though     not   the    pupil,    of     Lekain. 
Lekain  was  the  first  actor  to  substi- 
tute for  the  artificial  declamation  then 
in   vogue,  a  more   natural   utterance 
and   delivery ;    and    in    this    respect 
'L'alma  followed  and  went  further  than 
liis    predecessor.       Lekain,    too,    had 
meditated  a  reform  in  the  matter  of 
costume ;    but    it    was    reserved    for 
Talma  to  initiate  that  reform  and  to 
establish   at   the   very   outset   of   his 
career,    a    principle    which    he    con- 
sistently   carried    out     by   the    most 
minute    attention    to    correctness    of 
dress  and  surrounding.     To  the  eyes 
of    contemporaries,   however,  the  dif- 
ferences between  the   two  men  were 
more  obvious  than  their  resemblances. 
Roughly  speaking,    Lekain  stood  for 
the  old  school  of  actors,  whose  watch- 
word   in    speech     and     gesture    was 
Dignity  ;  while  Talma  was  the  pioneer 
of  Naturalness.     The  terms,  of  course, 
beg  the  question  \  but   if  the  perfec- 
tion  of    the   tragedian   consists  in  a 
proportionate   blending   of  these   two 
qualities,  the  palm  must  be  assigned 
to  Talma. 

Another  point  of  comparison  be- 
tween the  two  is  well  illustrated  by 
the  testimony  of  Madame  de  Stael  (in 
L' Allemagne),  After  praising  Talma's 
attitudes,  his  voice,  his  appreciation  of 
the  author's  meaning,  she  notices  his 
improvement  upon  previous  interpre- 
'lations  of  well-known  characters, 
,hus : 

In  Andromaque,  when  Hermione  ac- 
cuses Orestes  of  having  murdered  Pyrrhus, 
Orestes  answers, 

Et  ne  m'avez-vous  pas 
Vous-meme  ici  tantOt  ordonne  son  trepas  ? 

In  this  passage  Lekain  used  to  dwell  on 
each  word  as  though  to  recall  every  cir- 
cumstance of  the  order  he  had  received. 
Now  that  would  be  well  enough  in  the 
presence  of  a  judge,  but  before  the  woman 
one  loves,  despair  at  finding  her  unjust 


should  be  the  one.teeling  that  fills  the 
soul.  And  that  was  how  Talma  conceived 
it, — speaking  the  first  words  with  a  frenzied 
force,  then  falling  to  a  lower  note  in  the 
next,  and  sinking  at  the  last  to  a  depth  of 
prostration  in  which  he  could  barely 
articulate. 

This  power  of  understanding  and 
nicely  interpreting  the  full  meaning  of 
the  author  depends  on  a  literary  faculty 
which  few  actors  have  possessed  so 
conspicuously  'as  Talma.  To  be  con- 
vinced of  this  it  is  sufficient  to  look  at 
the  letters  that  passed  between  hina 
and  Ducis, — a  correspondence  which, 
while  it  attests  the  most  cordial  rela- 
tions between  author  and  actor,  shows 
also  that  the  latter,  without  actual 
collaboration,  was  responsible  for  many 
changes  and  improvements  in  the 
text. 

And  the  mention  of  Ducis  leads  to 
the  consideration  of    Talma    in    con- 
temporary   drama, — in     those     plays 
which  were  either  written  for  him  or 
with  which  he  is  especially  identified. 
Foremost  among  these  are  the  Shake- 
spearian adaptations  of  Ducis,   which 
Lekain  had  declined  to  accept  on  the 
ground  that  "  it  would  be  difficult  to 
get  a  pit,  accustomed  to  the  substantial 
beauties  of  Corneille  and  the  exquisite 
tenderness    of    Racine,  to  digest  the 
crudities  of  Shakespeare."    Talma  on 
the  other  hand  found  in  these  modifica- 
tions of  Hamlet,  Othello,  and  Macbeth 
his  favourite  studies,  and  the  nearest 
approach  which  was  then  possible  to- 
wards the  freedom  and  fulness  of  the 
English  drama.     That  he  did  so  con- 
quer his  public,  and  force  it  to  applaud, 
is  the  most  potent  proof  of  his  genius  ; 
it  is  certain  that  no  other  actor  of  the 
time  could  have  done  so.     For  a  genera- 
tion, indeed,  which  has  seen  the  tri- 
umphs   of    M.    Mounet-SuUy  in    the 
Hamlet  of  Shakespeare,  it  may  be  hard 
to  understand  the  daring  nature  of  the 
task  which  Talma  undertook.     Yet  he 
had  to  contend,  it  must  be  remembered, 
not  only  against  the  orthodox  literary 
contempt  for    Shakespeare,  but    also 
against  the  bitter  political  hatred  of 
England    and    things   English  which 


Talma. 


25 


prevailed  through  the  Empire  and  the 
early  years  of  the  Restoration.  There 
is,  in  fact,  abundant  evidence  that  the 
French  public,  however  much  they  may 
have  been  fascinated  by  Talma's  inter- 
pretation of  Ducis,  infinitely  preferred 
to  see  him  in  anything  else. 

Thus  he  was  compelled,  for  the  ma- 
jority of  his  new  parts,  to  have  recourse 
to  that  intermediate  school  of  writers 
with  whom  it  was  his  fate  to  be  con- 
temporary, and  whom  the  world  has 
agreed  to  disdain  as  the  Pseudo-Classic- 
ists. How  he  lamented  this  poverty 
of  his  age,  how  he  yearned  towards 
that  new  era  the  advent  of  which  he 
could  partly  discern,  and  how  at  last 
he  died  just  too  soon  to  witness  the 
birth  of  the  Drama  of  Natural  Passion 
— all  this  was  a  favourite  theme  with 
the  young  Romanticists  who  claimed 
Talma  as  their  ideal  of  an  actor.  On 
the  other  hand  the  same  man  was 
equally  the  hero  of  the  Classicists, 
who  in  their  celebrated  petition  of 
1829  referred  to  him  as  being  the  last 
true  exponent  of  Art ;  a  curious 
position,  but  one  which  does  not  alto- 
gether need  commiseration.  It  is  ad- 
mitted that  the  dramatists  of  the  Decad- 
ence were  at  least  skilful  playwrights 
— that  they  knew  perfectly  how  char- 
penter  une  piece ;  and  when  the  piece-was 
thus  blocked  out  and  garnished  with  an 
appropriate  stock  of  sentiments,  Talma 
was  allowed  full  scope  to  animate  the 
skeleton  according  to  his  will,  thus 
"  creating  '*  in  far  more  than  the  con- 
ventional sense  those  characters  which 
he  played.  How  he  would  have  figured 
in  the  more  melodramatic  parts  which 
suited  Lem^itre  so  admirably  may  be 
a  matter  of  speculation  ;  but  it  is  cer- 
tain that  he  would  not  have  found  in 
the  authors  of  the  new  school  men  so 
compliant  as  the  Arnaults,  the  Lemer- 
ciers,  the  Jouys  and  the  rest,  whose 
plays  he  popularised,  and  who,  con- 
scious of  the  fact,  bowed  the  knee 
and  worshipped. 

Apart,  however,  from  academic  ques- 
tions of  this  sort,  apart  also  from  a 
thorough  mastery  of  the  theory  of  his 
art  (the  principles  of  which   he  em-^ 


bodied  in  a  short  treatise  on  acting), 
there  remains  the  secret  of  that  mar- 
vellous fascination  which  Talma  exer- 
cised over  his  age.  It  would  be  futile 
to  resort  to  commonplace  eulogies  about 
the  "  sympathy  between  the  actor  and 
his  audience,"  the  "  personal  magnetism 
of  Talma "  and  so  forth,  for  these 
things  .bear  no  genuine  sound  to  other 
times,  and  are  as  empty  of  meaning  as 
would  be  a  mere  catalogue  of  the  parts 
he  played.  Since  the  influence  of  the 
living  actor  has  to  be  compensated  for 
by  an  almost  complete  oblivion  with 
posterity,  all  that  one  can  honestly  do 
is  to  record  those  personal  details  of 
the  man  which  seem  to  have  counted 
for  most  in  his  professional  life. 

Of  Talma's  appearance  Lamartine, 
referring  to  the  year  1818,  writes : 
"  He  was  a  man  of  rather  massive 
build  and  middle  height ;  the  Roman 
type  of  his  features  and  the  dull  tint 
of  his  complexion  recalled  some  bronze 
cast  of  an  Emperor ;  his  forehead  was 
wide,  his  eyes  large  and  soft,  his  cheeks 
somewhat  sunken,  his  mouth  fine  and 
delicate."  i  This  description,  tallying 
sufficiently  well  with  the  impression 
derived  from  the  bust  which  stands  in 
the  peristyle  of  the  Theatre  Francais, 
shows  that  Nature  had  done  her  part 
towards  moulding  the  tragedian.  Li- 
able to  a  nervous  derangement  which 
compelled  frequent  absences  from  the 
stage.  Talma's  mental  habit  was  that 
of  a  profound  and  morbid  melancholy 
— so  acute,  we  are  told,  that  the  sight 
of  human  beauty  was  painful  to  him 
by  its  suggestion  of  inevitable  death 
and  corruption. 

Akin  to  such  a  temperament  is  the 
quality  of  abstraction,  in  Talma's  case  a 
genuine  preoccupation  in  his  art,  show- 
ing itself  sometimes  in  amusing  inst- 
ances of  absence  of  mind, — as  when, 
descending  the  stairs  with  Mademoiselle 
Desgarcins,  and  having  forgotten  to 
offer  her  his  arm,  he  replied  to  the 
lady's  expostulatory  gesture  by  an — 
"Eh!  what?  .  .  .  take  hold  of  the 
banister  I "  at  other  times  in  a  total 
forgetfulness  of  his  purpose  and  sur- 
^  Cours  familier  de  Literature, 


26 


Talma, 


roundings, — as  when,  in  the  course  of 
a  lecture  at  the  Conservatoire  he  illus- 
trated the  proper  way  in  which  a  person 
overpowered  by  emotion  falls  to  the 
ground,  by  going  through  the  whole 
scene  three  times  and  on  each  occasion 
falling  down  himself,  although  he  had 
begun  by  carefully  impressing  on  his 
class  that  he  would  not  actually  execute 
the  fall  because  the  floor  was  very 
dusty  and  he  had  no  wish  to  soil  his 
clothes  ;  at  other  times,  again,  in  a 
pathetic  desire  to  utilise  even  his  own 
physical  infirmity  and  suffering, — as 
when  in  his  last  illness  he  observed 
with  satisfaction  that  his  emaciated 
and  sunken  cheeks  would  suit  him 
admirably  for  the  part  of  Tiberius 
which  he  hoped  soon  to  assume. 

Of  such  sort  was  the  man  himself. 
To  high  natural  qualifications  he  joined 
the  results  of  profound  and  incessant 
study.  And  to  these  elements  of 
greatness  must  be  added  that  which 
the  age  itself  supplied.  Talma  was 
the  actor  of  the  Revolution  and  of  the 
Empire.  He  had  witnessed  the  great- 
est horrors  of  France  and  her  greatest 
glory ;  and  he  spoke  to  men  who  had 


known  these  things  and  remembered 
them,  men  whom  the  pity  and  fear  of 
Tragedy  afPected  as  a  lively  present- 
ment of  their  own  experiences. 

**  What  was  Talma  ] "  says  Chateau- 
briand. "  Himself,  his  own  age,  and 
ancient  time.  His  was  the  profound 
and  concentrated  passion  of  patriotism ; 
his  was  the  derangement  of  genius 
proper  to  that  Revolution  through 
which  he  had  passed.  .  .  Black  Am- 
bition, Remorse,  Jealousy,  the  Melan- 
choly of  the  soul,  the  Pain  of  the  body, 
the  madness  which  the  gods  inspire, 
the  sorrow  which  human  hearts  can 
feel, — all  this  he  knew.  His  mere 
entry  on  the  stage,  the  sound  of  his 
voice  alone,  were  powerfully  tragic. 
Suffering  and  Thought  were  mingled 
on  his  brow,  breathed  in  his  immobil- 
ity, his  gestures,  his  step.  .  .  Given 
over  to  sadness,  expecting  something 
unknown  but  decreed  by  a  relentless 
Power,  he  advanced  the  bondslave  of 
Destiny,  inexorably  chained  betwixt 
Fatality  and  Fear."  ^ 

A.  F.  Davidson. 

^  Al^moires  cPOiitre-Tomhe. 


27 


THE    RIGHTS    OF    FREE    LABOUR. 


Four  important  legal  decisions 
affecting  the  rights  of  the  working 
classes  have  been  given  during  this 
summer.  The  great  edifice  of  our 
judge-made  law  is,  generally  speaking, 
like  the  Temple  of  Solomon,  so  silently- 
built  up,  that  many  important  addi- 
tions are  made  to  it  which  often  pass 
unobserved  except  by  comparatively 
few.  In  the  cool  judicial  atmosphere 
of  the  Courts  changes  in  the  law 
(under  the  form  of  its  interpretation) 
are  quietly  made,  which  could  only  be 
accomplished  by  legislation  after  a 
heated  discussion  in  Parliament.  Such 
is  the  ease  with  at  least  one  class 
of  these  decisions.  They  are  so  im- 
portant, and  have  such  marked  and 
far-reaching  consequences,that  it  is  well 
to  give  them  that  attention  which  they 
fully  deserve.  Otherwise,  many  (and 
the  majority  of  us  are  in  the  ranks  of 
the  employers  or  the  employed)  some 
day  will  find  to  their  surprise  that 
their  rights  and  liabilities  are  far  other- 
wise than  they  supposed  them  to  be. 

Of  these  four  cases,  two  have  refer- 
ence to  the  relations  of  master  and  ser- 
vant in  their  simplest  forms.  They 
are  not  so  important  as  the  others  ;  but 
still  they  are  important,  in  so  far  as 
they  mark  a  gain  for  the  wage-earning 
classes  which  is  substantial,  which  at 
the  same  time  is  unalloyed  by  any  con- 
comitant evils,  and  which  every  one 
will  welcome  as  being  in  accordance 
with  justice  and  common-sense.  They 
derive  moreover  additional  significance 
from  being  decisions  of  the  highest 
Court  of  Appeal,  and  as  therefore  set- 
tling once  and  for  all  what  was  formerly 
uncertain. 

Their  material  facts  are  shortly 
these.  In  the  first,  a  workman  named 
Smith  sued  his  employers,  Messrs. 
Charles  Baker  and  Sons,  for  damages 
for  injuries  received  by  him  while  at 
work  in  their  quarry.     He  had  been 


employed  in  the  quarry  for  some 
months  at  different  kinds  of  jobs. 
Two  months  before  the  accident,  he, 
with  two  other  men,  was  set  to  work 
with  a  hammer  and  drill,  he  handling 
the  drill  and  they  the  hammer.  On 
the  day  of  the  accident  he  was  in  this 
way  employed  in  drilling  a  hole,  and  at 
the  same  time  stones  were  being  lifted 
from  the  cutting,  which  was  seventeen 
or  eighteen  feet  deep.  It  occasionally 
happened  that  the  stones  so  lifted  were 
jibbed  over  the  place  where  Smith  was 
working,  and  it  did  actually  happen 
that  one  of  these  stones  in  the  course 
of  being  lifted  fell  upon  Smith  and 
caused  him  serious  injuries.  Smith  was 
accustomed,  whenever  he  saw  a  stone 
being  jibbed  over  him,  to  move  out  of 
the  way,  but,  as  he  was  engaged  in 
drilling  a  hole,  he  did  not  see  the  par- 
ticular stone  that  caused  the  injury, 
and  was  therefore  unable  to  move  in 
time.  It  was  contended  by  his  em- 
ployers that  as  he  was  aware  of  the 
risk  involved  in  his  work,  he  must  be 
taken  to  have  consented  to  incur  it. 
The  House  of  Lords  held  that,  though 
he  was  aware  of  the  risk,  it  did  not 
follow  that  he  thereby  voluntarily  sub- 
mitted himself  to  it ;  that  mere  know- 
ledge was  not  the  same  as  assent,  and 
that  a  man  who  was  sciens  was  not 
necessarily  voUna.  It  was  thought 
that  a  workman  might  be  perfectly 
well  aware  that  he  was  incurring  some 
risk,  that  he  might  call  the  attention 
of  his  employers  to  it,  and  that,  al- 
though the  element  of  risk  was  not 
removed,  he  might  yet  continue  to  in- 
cur it  rather  than  throw  up  his  em- 
ployment. It  would  be  a  hard  case  to 
say  that  a  workman  in  this  position 
had  incurred  the  risk  voluntarily.  He 
might  continue  to  work  most  unwill- 
ingly, dreading  the  possibility  of  in- 
jury, but  dreading  still  more  the  loss 
of  work  and  the  miseries  entailed  by  it. 


•28 


The  Rights  of  Free  Labour, 


Until  the  present  case  was  decided  an 
opposite  view  had  been  held  by  some 
judges,  and  might  perhaps  have  even- 
tually become  settled  law.  Fortunately 
now  this  is  not  the  case.  Work- 
men are  so  liable  to  accidents  in  the 
course  of  their  work,  that  every  one 
will  welcome  a  decision  which  places 
them  in  a  better  position  to  meet  the 
inevitable  risks  of  their  calling. 

In  the  second  case  a  man  named 
Johnson  was  employed  by  Messrs. 
Higgs  and  Hill,  a  firm  of  builders  who 
had  entered  into  a  contract  with  the 
Workmen's  Dwellings  Association  to 
erect  a  block  of  buildings.  There  was 
also  an  independent  contract  with 
Messrs.  W.  H.  Lindsay  and  Co.  to 
supply  fireproof  flats  and  floors  in  the 
buildings.  Johnson  and  Messrs. 
Lindsay's  men  were  engaged  in  their 
several  employments  at  the  same 
time,  and  through  the  latter' s  negli- 
gence Johnson  received  injuries  for 
which  he  claimed  damages  from 
Messrs.  Lindsay.  They  resisted  the 
claim  on  the  ground  that  their  own 
workmen  and  Johnson  were  engaged 
in  a  common  employment.  It  was 
perfectly  true  that  they  were  engaged 
in  the  common  employment  of  erecting 
the  buildings.  The  importance  of  the 
case  lies  in  this — that  it  has  been  de- 
cided that  this  is  not  enough  to  form 
a  good  defence,  but  that  it  is  necessary 
to  show  that  the  injured  and  those  who 
did  the  injury  should  have  one  common 
master.  Now  in  the  present  case 
Johnson  was  the  servant  of  Messrs. 
Higgs  and  Hill,  and  those  who  did  the 
injury  were  servants  of  Messrs.  Lind- 
say and  Co.,  so  that  in  no  sense  had 
they  a  common  master.  Johnson  was 
really  in  the  position  of  an  absolute 
stranger  to  Messrs.  Lindsay  and  Co., 
and  it  seems  only  reasonable  that  he 
should  have  the  full  rights  of  a  stranger. 
In  several  previous  cases  an  opposite 
view  had  prevailed,  so  that  by  the 
present  decision  the  working  classes 
generally  have  gained  a  solid  addition 
to  the  legal  rights  which  they  already 
enjoy.  This  is  an  event  upon  which 
they  may  well  be  congratulated. 


The  second  class  of  cases  to  which 
we  refer  have  a  most  important  benr- 
ing  upon  the  status  and  rights  of  Trade- 
Unions,  and  they  therefore  deserve  the 
fullest  consideration.  They  are  two 
in  number,  and  their  material  facts, 
which  are  very  instructive,  may  be 
stated  shortly  as  follows. 

In  the  first,  a  workman  named 
Ijawson  was  charged  with  unlawfully 
intimidating  a  fellow-workman  named 
Gibson.  Both  men  were  employed  as 
fitters  in  the  same  shipbuilding  yard. 
They  belonged  however  to  different 
Trade-Unions,  Lawson  being  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Amalgamated  Society,  and 
Gibson  a  member  of  the  National 
Society.  On  December  3rd,  1890,  a 
meeting  of  the  Amalgamated  Society 
was  held,  at  which  it  was  resolved 
that  the  members  of  that  Society 
would  strike  unless  Gibson  would  leave 
his  Society  and  join  them.  Lawson 
communicated  this  decision  to  the 
foreman  of  the  Shipbuilding  Company 
in  which  they  were  employed,  and  the 
foreman  in  his  turn  communicated  it 
to  Gibson.  After  an  interview  be- 
tween Gibson  and  Lawson,  the  former 
was  finally  informed  that  the  Amal- 
gamated Society  were  determined  to 
carry  their  resolution  into  effect,  and  he 
was  given  until  December  6th  to  make 
up  his  mind.  Gibson  was  however  not 
to  be  browbeaten  in  this  fashion,  and 
in  the  event  he  remained  true  to  his 
own  Society.  But  here  a  very  untoward 
thing  happened.  The  Shipbuilding 
Company,  who  employed  a  number  of 
men  belonging  to  the  Amalgamated 
Society,  in  order  to  avoid  a  strike  dis- 
missed Gibson  from  their  yard.  It 
should  be  said  in  justice  to  the  Amal- 
gamated Society  that  no  violence  or 
threats  of  violence  were  used  to 
Gibson's  person  or  property ;  but 
Gibson  was  afraid,  and  justly  so,  that, 
in  consequence  of  what  Lawson  had 
told  him,  he  would  lose  his  employ- 
ment, and  would  find  no  more  in  any 
place  where  the  Amalgamated  Society 
was  stronger  than  his  own. 

In  the  second  case  the  material 
facts  are    these.     A    secretary   of    a 


The  Rights  of  Free  Labour. 


29 


Trade-IJDion  named  Curran,  and  the 
secretaries  of  two  other  Trade-Unions 
were  charged  with  unlawfully  intimi- 
dating a  Plymouth  ship-owner  named 
Treleavan.  The  three  secretaries  told 
Mr.  Treleavan  that,  if  he  continued  to 
employ  non-Union  men,  they  would 
call  off  from  work  all  the  members  of 
their  respective  Unions  in  his  service. 
Mr.  Treleavan  very  naturally  re- 
sented this  dictation,  and  refused  to 
comply  with  their  demands.  There- 
upon the  secretaries  carried  out  their 
threat,  and  the  Union  men  in  obe- 
dience to  the  call  struck  work.  It 
should  be  added  that  the  secretaries 
did  not  desire  or  intend  that  any 
violence  should  be  used,  or  that  any 
personal  injury  should  be  done  to  Mr. 
Treleavan,  nor  were  their  acts  or 
words  calculated  directly  to  cause  any 
such  violence  or  injury. 

Now  in  both  of  these  cases  it  was 
held  that  there  had  been  no  intimida- 
tion, and  that  therefore  the  accused 
must  be  acquitted.  These  decisions 
unquestionably  constitute  an  impor- 
tant victory  for  the  Trade-Union - 
ists  j  unquestionably  also  they  suggest 
much  matter  for  reflection.  First, 
they  mark  the  consummation  of 
a  very  instructive  period  of  legal 
history,  a  history  which  affords  a 
curious  example  of  the  manner  in 
which  men  shift  their  point  of  view 
on  questions  of  morals  and  politics. 
What  was  recently  held  wrong  is  now 
deemed  right,  and  the  paradoxes  of 
yesterday  become  the  truisms  of  to- 
day. The  light  in  which  strikes  have 
been  regarded  is  an  example  of  this. 
Within  the  early  years  of  the  present 
century  strikes  were  considered  not 
merely  impolitic  (as  indeed  they  may 
well  be  now),  but  criminal.  We  find 
the  judges  laying  down  dicta  of  this 
sort,  "  Each  may  insist  on  raising  his 
wages,  if  he  can,  but  if  several  meet 
for  the  same  purpose,  it  is  illegal,  and 
the  parties  may  be  indicted  for  con- 
spiracy ; "  or  again,  "  Combinations, 
whether  on  the  part  of  workmen  to 
increase  or  of  the  masters  to  lower 
wages,   are    equally  illegal."       Chief 


Justice  Sir  William  Earle  spoke  of 
strikes  "as  the  power  of  evfl  in  re- 
morseless activity,  destroying  those 
relations  between  employers  and 
employed  on  which  comfort  and  peace 
depend,  bringing  guilt  and  misery  on 
the  workmen  and  ruin  on  their  em- 
ployers.'* With  much  of  this  state- 
ment every  one  will  cordially  agree. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  at  least  about 
the  misery  and  ruin.  How  the  idea 
arose  that  to  strike  was  criminal  it 
is  not  easy  to  discover.  There  were 
indeed  some  ancient  statutes  which 
made  it  unlawful  for  workmen  to  com- 
bine for  the  purpose  of  raising  wages 
or  regulating  the  hours  of  work. 
One  at  least  was"  passed  in  the  reign 
of  Edward  VI.  These  statutes,  and 
the  notion  that  strikes  were  con- 
trary to  public  policy  as  being  a 
restraint  of  trade,  were  probably  the 
foundation  of  the  theory  that  strikes 
were  illegal.  However  that  may  be, 
public  opinion  began  to  make  its 
power  felt  in  favour  of  a  relaxation 
of  a  law  which  came  to  be  re- 
garded as  unsatisfactory  and  un- 
fair. TJie  first  step  in  this  direction 
was  taken  in  1826.  Strikes  were 
then  for  the  first  time  made 
legal,  but  the  value  of  the  concession 
was  much  limited  owing  to  the  com- 
prehensive manner  in  which  a  number 
of  acts  were  prohibited.  Strikes  were 
indeed  made  legal,  but  so  timorous 
were  our  legislators  that  they  took 
care  to  render  it  almost  impossible 
that  the  strikes  could  be  conducted 
under  other  than  illegal  conditions. 
It  became  apparent  that  the  prohibi- 
tions contained  in  this  statute  were 
too  stringent,  and  so  in  1871  a  new 
statute  was  passed  by  which  intimida- 
tion was  practically  restricted  to  mean 
threats  of  personal  violence.  Finally 
in  1875  this  statute  also  was  repealed, 
and  the  Conspiracy  and  Protection  of 
Property  Act  substituted  for  it. 
This  act  likewise  prohibited  intimida- 
tion, but  it  left  the  meaning  of  the 
word  entirely  undefined,  and  in  the 
two  cases  given  above  the  judges 
being  called  upon  to  say  what  intimi- 


30 


The  Bights  of  Free  Labour, 


dation  meant,  declared  its  meaning  to 
be  restricted  to  threats  of  personal 
violence.  Here  then  we  have  before 
us  an  interesting  picture  of  the 
gradual  modification  of  public  opinion. 
It  may  be  even  cited  in  illustration  of 
the  theory  that  there  is  no  absolute 
standard  in  morals,  but  that  they  are 
merely  relative  to  time  and  place. 
For  just  as  a  certain  sect  in  Arabia  is 
said  to  hold  tobacco-smoking  to  be 
worse  than  murder,  so  in  England  at 
the  beginning  of  this  present  century 
to  strike  was  held  criminal,  while 
wholesale  political  bribery  was  held,  if 
not  laudable,  at  least  blameless.  Eut 
gradually  public  opinion  changed. 
First,  strikes  were  illegal ;  then  they 
were  made  legal,  but  only  in  a  nig- 
gardly spirit ;  lastly,  their  legality  was 
fully  and  generously  conceded,  and 
now  men  may  strike  as  much  as  they 
please  so  long  as  they  abstain  from 
threats  of  personal  violence.  The 
change  is  immense.  The  Papacy  is 
not  usually  regarded  as  other  than  a 
somewhat  laggard  institution.  But 
even  Leo  XIII.,  in  his  recent  En- 
cyclical on  the  Condition  of  Labour, 
is  emphatic  in  his  encouragement  of 
Workmen's  Associations,  and  im- 
plicitly recognizes  their  right  to  strike. 
All  this  is  well  so  far.  Trade- 
Unions,  when  conducted  in  accordance 
with  their  first  principles,  may  be 
harmless  and  even  necessary  institu- 
tions. We  hardly  in  these  days  re- 
quire to  be  reminded  that  union  is 
strength  by  Scriptural  authority,  such 
as  the  passages  quoted  in  the  Papal* 
Encyclical :  "  Woe  to  him  that  is  alone, 
for  when  he  falleth  he  hath  none  to 
help  him ; "  '*  A  brother  that  is  helped 
by  his  brother  is  like  a  strong  city," 
and  so  forth.  Nor  will  it  be  denied 
that  strikes  should  be  up  to  a  certain 
point  legal.  Occasions  may  doubtless 
arise  when  workmen  can  only  obtain 
justice  by  striking,  for,  again  to  use 
the  words  of  the  Encyclical,  "  there  is 
a  dictate  of  nature  more  imperious 
and  more  ancient  than  any  bargain 
between  man  and  man,  that  the  re- 
muneration must  be  enough  to  support 


the  wage-earner  in  reasonable  and 
frugal  comfort.  If  through  necessity, 
or  fear  of  a  worse  evil,  the  workman 
accepts  harder  conditions  because  an 
employer  or  contractor  will  give  him 
no  better,  he  is  the  victim  of  force  or 
injustice."  But  these  decisions  go  to 
much  greater  lengths  than  merely  re- 
inforcing the  liberty  of  working  men 
to  strike.  Let  us  consider  what  the 
facts  of  these  two  cases  wera  In  the 
first,  the  action  of  the  Amalgamated 
Society  resulted  in  a  very  serious  inter- 
ference with  Gibson's  freedom  of 
action.  He  was,  in  fact,  placed  on  the 
horns  of  a  dilemma.  Either  he  was  to 
be  compelled  to  leave  his  own  Society 
and  join  another  against  his  will,  or  he 
was  to  be  subjected  to  the  risk  of  losing 
his  employment.  He  preferred  to  incur 
the  risk,  and  in  the  event  did  actually 
lose  his  employment.  And  all  this 
although  he  was  a  good  citizen,  willing 
and  able  to  work  and  serve  his  em- 
ployers. If  this  be  not  tyranny,  it  is 
a  very  perfect  imitation  of  it.  It  is 
simply  monstrous  that  a  man  should 
not  be  able  to  work  for  any  one  he 
pleases,  or  to  belong  to  any  Society  he 
pleases,  without  being  subjected  to 
pressure  of  this  sort.  Then  again  the 
Shipbuilding  Company  was  placed  in 
a  position  in  which  no  employers  of 
labour  ever  should  be  placed.  Either 
it  had  to  dismiss  Gibson  for  no  fault 
of  his,  which  was  an  act  of  injustice, 
or  it  had  to  submit  to  a  strike  of  its 
own  men  with  all  its  disastrous  con- 
sequences. It  preferred  the  former 
course,  and  sacrificed  Gibson  to  its  own 
interests.  The  facts  of  the  second 
case  are  as  bad  as,  if  not  worse  than, 
the  first.  In  this  case  Mr.  Treleavan, 
the  employer,  was  placed  in  the  dilemma 
of  having  to  submit  to  a  strike,  or  to 
dismiss  the  non-Union  men  in  his  em- 
ploy for  no  fault  of  their  own.  He  de- 
clined to  do  the  latter,  an  act  of  gross 
injustice,  and  in  consequence  had  to  en- 
counter a  strike.  A  workman  surely 
ought  to  be  at  liberty  to  decide  for 
himself  whether  he  will  join  any 
Trade-Union  at  all,  without  being  sub- 
mitted to  almost  irresistible  pressure 


The  BigJUs  of  Free  Labour. 


31 


to  compel  him  to  join.     The  Trade- 
Union  says  to  him  almost  in  so  many 
words,  "  Join  us  or  starve/'    Leo  XIII. 
in  his  Encyclical    has  declared    that 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  evidence  which 
goes  to  prove  that  many  workmen's 
Societies  **  are  managed  on  principles 
far  from  compatible  with  Christianity 
and  the  public  well-being;  and   that 
they  do  their  best  to  get  into  their 
hands  the  whole  field  of  labour  and  to 
force  workmen  either  to  join  them  or 
starve."     K  Leo    XIII.    wants    any 
more  evidence  of  this,  he  has  it  in 
these  two  cases  ready   to  his   hand. 
And  herein  lies  their  great  importance, 
for  by  them  the  seal  and  sanction  of 
the  law  is  given  to  acts  which  do  really 
seem  to  conflict  with  Christianity  and 
the  public  weal.     This  new  Apocalypse 
of  tyranny  that  is  presented  to  us  is 
appalling.     For  it  should  be  noted  that 
the  two  cases  we  have  described  are 
only  examples  which  have  happened 
to  come  before  the  Courts.     They  are 
only  samples  of  the  bulk,  and  what 
that  bulk  is  we  may  infer  from  the 
case  of  Michael  Crawley,  the  facts  of 
which  have  been  given  in  a  letter  to 
The  Standard  from  Mr.  John  Sennett. 
Crawley  was  a    Thames    lighterman, 
who,  when  the  Lightermen's   Union 
resolved  to  take  part  in  the  great  dock 
strike,  refused  to  join  in  that  strike. 
He  entered  the  service  of  Messrs.  A. 
and  P.  Keen,  of  Bermondsey,  and  re- 
mained with  them  for  a  considerable 
period.     When  the  strike  was  over, 
the    Lightermen's     Union    had     the 
effrontery  to  impose    a  fine    of   five 
pounds  upon  him  as  a  punishment  for 
remaining  at  work.     This  he  flatly  re- 
fused to  pay,  and,  as  Messrs.   Keen 
very  properly  declined  to  dismiss  him, 
it  was  decided  to  boycott  him.     !Never 
was  a  resolution  carried  out  with  more 
^^^^^^S^'^g  persistency  or  inexorable 
cruelty.    The  lightermen  would  neither 
speak  with  him  nor  work  with  him. 
He  was  an  outcast,  a  pariah,  a  social 
leper.     Every  obstacle  was  placed  in 
his  way.     He  did  not  even  escape  vio- 
ence.     Even   when  he  was  compelled 
by  inability  to  obtain  work  at  his  usual 


calling  to  look  for  it  elsewhere,  his 
persecution  did  not  cease.  He  was 
hounded  down  wherever  he  went  and 
whatever  he  did.  The  result  was  that 
he  was  driven  to  great  straits,  almost 
to  starvation  and  suicide.  And  all 
for  what  1  Because  he  had  the  pre- 
sumption to  differ  from  his  fellow- 
workmen  on  the  opportuneness  of  a 
strike !  Tyranny  could  not  well  go 
much  further. 

Trade-Unions  are  above  all  Societies 
bound  to  refrain   from  any  infraction 
of  the  liberty  of  others.     It  is  to  the 
sacred  principle  of  liberty  that  they 
owe  their  present   position.      It  was 
strenuously  argued  by  their  supporters 
that  liberty  demanded  the  abolition  of 
the   Combination   Laws,   and   it  was 
further  claimed  that  Trade-Unionism, 
though  unrestrained,  would  never  cur- 
tail  the   freedom   of  any  man.     The 
wheel  of  Fortune  has  spun  round,  and 
Trade-Unionism    now   "stands    upon 
the    top    of    golden    hours."     It  has 
triumphed  ;  but  can  it  be  said  to  have 
remained  true  to  the  promises  made 
for  it  ?     Assuredly  it  cannot.     It  was 
said  that  they  would  only  put  moral 
pressure    or   suasion    upon   workmen 
who  differed  from  them.     But  in  the 
cases    described   the    pressure   might 
certainly  be  described  as  immoral.    In 
Gibson's  case  the  Amalgamated  Society 
had  not  even  the  excuse  so  often  put 
forward    by   Trade-Unions    for    boy- 
cotting those  who  refuse  to  join  in  a 
strike.    It  is  said  that  those  men  who 
take  the  place  of  strikers,  and  who  are 
•  called  "  blacklegs,"  are  willing  enough 
to  reap,  and  do   reap,  the  advantages 
of  Trade-Unionism.      They  gain   the 
benefit  of  a   rise  in   wages,  but  they 
shirk  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day, 
and  step  in  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  the 
labour  of  others.     There  may  possibly 
be  some  justice  in  this  contention,  but 
it  has  no  application  to  Gibson's  case. 
He    actually    belonged    to   a    Trade- 
Union,  and  did  not  step  in  to  take  the 
place  of  a  striker ;  it  was  simply  the 
tyranny  of  the  Amalgamated  Society 
which  would    brook  no  rival.     Then, 
again,  both  in  this  case  and  the  Ply- 


32 


The  Rights  of  Free  La'b(ntQ\ 


mouth  case,  the  Trade-Unions  seemed 
not  to  care  one  jot  how  much  they 
injured  the  employers,  so  long  as  they 
gained  their  end.  The  shipbuilding 
company  and  Mr.  Treleavan  had  no- 
thing whatever  to  do  with  the  Trade- 
Unions'  grievances  ;  and  yet  the  Trade- 
Unions  did  not  hesitate  either  to  com- 
pel them  to  acts  of  injustice  or  to 
submit  them  to  heavy  loss.  There 
uFed  to  be  a  maxim  that  you  should  so 
use  your  own  as  not  to  injure  any  one 
else.  This  would  seem  to  have  been 
abrogated,  so  far  as  Trade-Unions  are 
concerned.  Then  what  of  the  moral- 
ity of  the  treatment  meted  out  to 
Crawley  ]  There  might  have  been 
some  foundation  of  justice  in  refusing 
to  work  with  him  during  the  continu- 
ance of  the  strike.  But  when  the 
strike  was  over,  even  when  he  had 
ceased  to  work  as  a  lighterman,  he  was 
persistently  persecuted.  Such  treat- 
ment was  nothing  but  revenge  as 
senseless  as  it  was  cruel.  But  the 
worst  of  all  this  is,  that,  since  the 
decisions  in  the  Newcastle  and  Ply- 
mouth cases,  it  is  legalized  by  the  law 
of  the  land.  It  is  not  intimidation,  in 
the  sense  of  threats  of  violence,  and 
that  is  enough.  Even  in  Crawley's 
case,  it  was  only  actual  assault  that 
was  illegal.  But  tyranny  may  be  not 
the  less  odious  and  oppressive  because 
indirect  and  more  or  less  veiled.  And 
torture  may  be  moral  as  well  as 
physical ;  the  enforced  loss  of  work, 
and  the  resulting  pinch  of  poverty,  may 
be  even  harder  to  bear  than  actual 
violence.  The  pangs  of  starvation  may 
be  a  more  exquisite  pain  than  that 
caused  by  a  blow  or  a  kick.  But, 
according  to  the  present  state  of  the 
law,  you  may  threaten  the  former, 
though  not  the  latter.  It  is  note- 
worthy that  these  decisions  are 
approved  by  such  a  sturdy  supporter 
of  the  true  principles  of  Trade-TJnion- 
ism  as  Mr.  Howell,  M.P.  He  declares 
that  if  these  cases  had  been  decided 
differently  it  would  have  rendered  the 
Act  of  1875  "a  trap  for  the  unwary," 
and  that  such  an  interpretation  would 
have  been  "  a   class  declaration  of  a 


class  law."  But  the  law  would  have 
been  the  same  for  everybody,  for  em- 
ployers and  employed  alike,  so  that  it 
is  difficult  to  see  the  validity  of  his 
contention.  What  we  may  expect  to 
be  the  view  of  the  more  fiery  advocates 
of  what  is  called  the  new  Trade-Union- 
ism  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that, 
at  the  Trade-Union  Congress  of  1890, 
the  Parliamentary  Committee  was 
instructed  to  secure  the  removal  even 
of  the  existing  restrictions  on  intimi- 
dation. Fortunately  this  enormity  has 
not  been  again  perpetrated  at  the  last 
Congress. 

It  is  unhappily  too  true  that  for  the 
most  part  the  only  bond  that  now 
exists  between  master  and  servant  is 
the  bond  of  money.  Even  Shakespeare 
lamented  the  disappearance  of 

The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world. 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed. 

But  that  is  all  the  more  reason  why 
the  relations  of  master  and  servant, 
and,  it  may  be  added,  of  servant  and 
servant,  should  be  put  on  a  propei- 
legal  footing.  It  is  bad  that  Trade- 
Unionists  should  terrorize  non-Union- 
ists  :  it  is  worse  that  one  Trade-Union 
should  try  to  trample  on  the  members 
of  another  Trade-Union  ;  but  it  is 
worse  still  that  employers  should  be 
made  to  suffer  loss  in  consequence. 
This  state  of  things  is  intolerable,  and 
not  to  be  borne;  it  must  be  mended 
or  ended.  And  this  can  be  easily  done. 
For  even  so  late  as  the  year  1867  it 
was  held  by  the  judges  that  a  strike 
was  illegal,  at  least  in  so  far  as  its  ob- 
ject was  to  coerce  a  workman  in  respect 
of  the  freedom  of  his  industry  or  an 
employer  in  respect  of  the  manage- 
ment of  his  business.  This  doctrine 
was  subsequently  exploded.  But  if 
it  was  embodied  in  a  short  statute  it 
would  go  a  long  way  towards  remov- 
ing an  evil  which  tends  to  grow,  now 
that  the  newer  Trade-Unionists  seem 
inclined  to  break  from  those  first 
principles  which  have  been  their  best 
support,  and  which  can  be  their  only 
excuse. 

C.  B.  EoYLANCE  Kent. 


^ 


38 


THE    FLOWER    OF    FORGIVENESS. 


"Surely  this  is  very  rare?"  I 
remarked,  as  looking  through  a  her- 
barium of  Himalayan  plants  belonging 
to  a  friend  of  mine  I  came  upon  a 
small  anemone  which,  contrary  to  the 
custom  of  that  most  delicate  of  flowers, 
had  preserved  its  colour  in  all  its  first 
freshness.  Indeed  the  scarlet  petals, 
each  bearing  a  distinct  heartsbaped 
blotch  of  white  in  the  centre,  could 
scarcely  have  glowed  more  brilliantly 
in  life  than  they  did  in  death. 

'*Very  rare,"  returned  the  owner 
after  a  pause ;  "I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve it  unique, — so  far  as  collections 
go  at  any  rate." 

"  I  see  you  have  called  it  RemUsiorir 
ensis.  What  induced  you  to  give  it 
such  an  odd  name  1 " 

He  smiled.  "  Dog-Latin,  I  acknow- 
ledge. As  for  tlie  reason, — can  you 
not  guess?" 

**  Well,"  I  replied,  looking  closer  at 
the  white  and  red  flowers,  "  I  have  not 
your  vivid  imagination,  but  I  presume 
it  was  in  allusion  to  sins  as  scarlet, 
and  hearts  white  as  wool.  Ah  !  it  was 
found,  I  see,  near  the  Gave  of  Amar- 
nath ;  that  accounts  for  the  connection 
of  ideas." 

"No  doubt,"  he  said  quietly,  "that 
accounts  for  the  connection  in  a 
measure ;  not  entirely.  The  fact  is, 
a  very  odd  story, — the  oddest  story  I 
ever  came  into  personally — is  con- 
nected with  that  flower.  You  remem- 
ber Taylor,  surgeon  of  the  101st,  who 
died  of  pyaemia  contracted  in  some  of 
his  cholera  experiments  1  Well,  just 
after  I  joined,  we  chummed  together 
in  Gashmere,  where  he  was  making 
the  herbarium  at  which  you  have  been 
looking.  He  was  a  most  charming 
companion  for  a  youngster  eager  to 
understand  something  of  a  new  life, 
for,  without  exception,  he  knew  more 
of  native  thought  and  feeling  than  any 

No.  385. — VOL.  Lxv. 


other  man  I  ever  met.  He  had  a 
sort  of  intuition  about  it ;  yet  at  the 
same  time  he  was  curiously  unsym- 
pathetic, and  seemed  to  look  on  it 
merely  as  a  field  for  research,  and 
nothing  more.  He  used  to  talk  lo 
every  man  he  met  on  the  road,  and  in 
this  way  managed  to  acquire  an  extra- 
ordinary amount  of  information  ut- 
terly undreamed  of  by  most  English- 
men. For  instance,  his  first  acquaint- 
ance with  the  existence  of  this  anemone 
grew  out  of  a  chance  conversation  witli 
an  old  ruffian  besmeared  with  filth 
from  head  to  foot,  and  it  was  his 
consequent  desire  to  add  the  rarity 
to  his  collection,  joined  to  my  fancy 
for  seeing  a  real  pilgrimage,  which 
brought  us  to  Islamabad  about  the 
end  of  July,  about  the  time,  that  is  to 
say,  of  the  annual  festival. 

**The  sacred  spring  where  the  pil- 
grimage is  inaugurated  by  a  solemn 
feeding  of  the  holy  fish  is  some  way 
from  the  town,  so  we  pitched  our 
tents  under  a  plane  tree  close  to  the 
temples,  in  order  to  see  the  whole 
show.  And  a  queer  show  it  was, 
Brimimagem  umbrellas  stuck  like  mush- 
rooms over  green  stretches  of  grass, 
and  giving  shelter  to  a  motley  crew  ; 
jogist  or  wandering  mendicants,  medi- 
tating on  the  mystic  word  Om  and 
thereafter  lighting  sacred  fires  with 
Swedish  tdadstickors ;  Government 
clerks,  bereft  of  raiment,  forgetting 
reports  and  averages  in  a  return  to 
primitive  humanity.  Taylor  never 
tired  of  pointing  out  these  strange 
contrasts,  and  over  his  evening  pipe 
read  me  many  a  long  lecture  on 
putting  new  wine  into  old  bottles. 
For  niysflf  it  interested  me  immensely. 
I  liked  to  think  of  the  young  men 
and  maidens,  the  weary  workeis  and 
the  hoary  old  sinners,  all  journeying 
in   faith,  hope,    and   charity    (or  the 

D 


3* 


The  Flower  of  Forgiveness. 


want  of  it)  to  the  Cave  of  -Amar-nath 
in   order  to  get  the  Great  Ledger  of 
Life  settled  up  to  date,  and  so  to  re- 
turn scot  free  to  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil  in  order  to  begin  the  old 
round  all  over  again.     I  liked  to  think 
that  crime  sufficient  to  drag  half  Hin- 
dostan  to  the  nethermost  pit  had  been 
made  over  to  those  white  gypsum  cliffs, 
and  that  still,  summer  after  summer, 
the   wind    flowers    sprang    from    the 
crannies,  and  the  forget-me-nots  with 
their  message  of  warning  came  to  car- 
pet the  way  for  those  eager  feet  seek- 
ing the  impossible.     I  liked  to  see  all 
the   strange   perversities   and    pieties 
displayed  by  theijogis  and  gosains.     It 
was  from  one  of  the  latter,  a  horrid 
old  ruffian  (so  ridiculously  like  II  Re 
Galant  'uomo  that  we  nicknamed  him 
Victor   Emanuel   on    the   spot),   that 
Taylor  had  first  heard  of  the  Flower  of 
Forgiveness  as  the  man  styled  it.     He 
and  the  Doctor  grew  quite  hot  over  the 
possible   remission  of    sins ;    but    the 
subsequent  gift  of  one  rupee  sterling 
sent  him  away  asseverating  that  none 
could  filch  from  him  the  first-fruits  of 
pilgrimage, — namely  the  opportunity 
of   meeting   a  Protector  of   the  Poor 
so  virtuous,  so  generous,  so  full  of  the 
hoarded  wisdom  of  ages.     I  recognised 
the  old  humbug  in  the  crowd   as  we 
made  our  way  to  a  sort  of  latticed  gal- 
lery   belonging    to    the   Maharajah's 
guest-house,  which  gave  on  the  tank 
where  the  fish  are  fed.     He  salaamed 
profoundly,  and  with  a  grin  expressed 
his   delight  that,  after  all,  the  great 
Doctor  sahib  should  be  seeking  forgive- 
ness. 

**  *  I  seek  the  flower  only.  Pious 
One  ? '  replied  Taylor  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders. 

"  *  Perhaps  'tis  the  same  thing,' 
retorted  Victor  Emanuel  with  another 
salaam. 

"  The  square  tank  was  edged  by 
humanity  in  the  white  and  saffron 
robes  of  pilgrimage.  Brimming  up  to 
the  stone  step  worn  smooth  by  genera- 
tions of  sinners,  the  waters  of  the 
spring  lapped  lazily,  stirred  by  the 
myriads  of  small  fish  which  in  their 


eagerness  for  the  coming  feast  flashed 
hither  and  thither  like  meteors,  to 
gather  in  radiating  stars  round  the 
least  speck  on  the  surface,  sometimes 
in  their  haste  rising  in  scaly  mounds 
above  the  water.  The  blare  of  a 
conch,  and  a  clanging  of  discordant 
bells  made  all  eyes  turn  to  the  plat- 
form in  front  of  the  temple,  where  the 
attendant  Brahmans  stood  with  high- 
heaped  baskets  of  grain  awaiting  the 
sacrificial  words  about  to  be  spoken  by 
an  old  man,  who,  with  one  foot  on  the 
bank,  spread  his  arms  skywards.  An 
old  man  of  insignificant  height,  but 
with  an  indescribable  dignity  on  which 
I  remarked  to  my  companion. 

"  *  It  is  indescribable,'  he  assented, 
'because  it  is  compounded  of  factors 
not  only  wide  as  the  poles  asunder 
from  you  or  me,  but  also  from  each 
other.  Pride  of  twice-born  trebly- 
distilled  ancestry  bringing  a  conviction 
of  inherited  worthiness ;  pride  in 
hardly-acquired  devotion  giving  birth 
to  a  sense  of  personal  frailty.  That 
is  the  Brahman  whom  T^e  lump  into  a 
third-class  railway  carriage  with  the 
ruck  of  humanity,  and  then  wonder, — 
hush  !  he  is  going  to  begin.' 

'' '  Thou  art  Light !  Thou  art  Im- 
mortal Life  ! '  The  voice  with  a  tre- 
mor of  emotion  in  it  pierced  the 
stillness  for  a  second  before  it  was 
shattered  by  a  hoarse  strident  cry, — 
'  Silence  ! ' 

"Taylor  leaned  forward,  suddenly 
interested.  *  You're  in  luck,'  he 
whispered.  *  I  believe  there  is  going  to 
be  a  row  of  some  sort.' 

"Once  more  the  cry  rose  harsher 
than  before  :  *  Silence,  Sukya  /  Thou 
art  impure.' 

"  A  stir  in  the  crowd,  and  a  visible 
straightening  of  the  old  man's  back 
were  the  only  results. 

"  *  Thou  art  the  Holiest  Sacrifice  ! 
We  adore  Thee,  adorable  Sun  ! ' 

'' '  Silence  ! ' 

"This  time  the  interruption  took 
shape  in  a  jogi,  who,  forcing  his  way 
through  the  dense  ranks,  emerged  on 
the  platform  to  stand  pointing  with 
denunciatory  finger  at  the  old  Brah- 


The  Flower  of  Forgiveness. 


35 


man.  Naked,  save  for  the  cable  of 
grass  round  his  loins  and  the  smear- 
ing of  white  ashes,  with  hair  lime- 
bleached  and  plaited  with  hemp  into 
a  sort  of  chignon,  no  more  ghastly 
figure  could  be  conceived.  The  crowd, 
however,  hailed  him  with  evident  re- 
spect, while  a  murmur  of  *  Gopi !  'tis 
Gopi  the  hikshu  [religious  beggar] ' 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  This 
reception  seemed  to  rouse  the  old 
man's  wrath,  for  after  one  scornful 
glance  at  the  newcomer  he  was  about 
to  continue  his  invocation  to  the  sun, 
when  the  jogi  striding  forward  flour- 
ished his  mendicant's  staff  so  close  to 
the  other's  face  that  he  perforce  fell 
back. 

"  Before  the  crowd  had  grasped  the 
deadly  earnest  of  the  scene,  a  lad  of 
about  sixteen,  clad  in  the  black  ante- 
lope skin  which  marks  a  religious  dis- 
ciple, had  leaped  quivering  with  rage 
between  the  old  man  and  his  as- 
sailant. 

"  *  By  George,'  muttered  Taylor, 
*  what  a  splendid  young  fellow  ! ' 

"  He  was  indeed.  Extraordinarily 
fair,  even  for  the  fairest  race  in  India, 
he  might  have  served  as  model  for  a 
young  Perseus  as  he  stood  there,  the 
antelope  skin  falling  from  his  right 
shoulder  leaving  the  sacred  cord  of  the 
Brahman  visible  on  his  left,  while  his 
smooth  round  limbs  showed  in  all  theii* 
naked,  vigorous  young  beauty. 

"  *  Stand  off,  Amra  !  who  bade  thee 
interfere  ? '  cried  the  old  man  sternly. 
The  bond  between  them  was  manifest 
by  the  alacrity  with  which  the  boy 
obeyed  the  command,  for  to  the 
spiritual  master  implicit  obedience  ia 
due.  At  the  same  moment  the  chief 
priest  of  the  shrine,  alarmed  at  an  in- 
cident which  might  interfere  with  the 
expected  almsgiving,  hurried  forward. 
Luckily  the  crowd  kept  the  silence 
which  characterises  gregarious  hu- 
manity in  the  East,  so  we  could  follow 
what  was  said. 

**  *  Wilt  remove  yonder  drunken 
fanatic,  or  shall  the  worship  of  the 
Shining  Ones  be  profaned  ? '  asked  the 
old  Brahman  savagely  ;  and  at  a  sign 


from  their  chief  the  attendants  stepped 
forward. 

"  But  the  jogi  facing  the  crowd  ap- 
pealed direct  to  that  fear  of  defilement 
which  haunts  the  Hindoo's  heart.  '  Im- 
pure !  Impure  !  Touch  him  not !  Hear 
him  not !  Look  not  on  him ! '  The 
vast  concourse  swayed  and  stirred,  as 
with  a  confident  air  the  jogi  turned  to 
the  chief  priest.  *  These  twelve  years 
agone,  O !  mohunt-ji^  ^  thou  knowest 
Gopi — Gopi  the  hikshu!  since  for 
twelve  years  I  have  been  led  hither 
by  the  Spirit,  seeking  speech,  and  find- 
ing silence  !  But  now  speech  is  given 
by  the  same  Spirit.  That  man,  Sukya, 
anchorite  of  Setanagar,  is  unclean, 
false  to  his  race,  to  his  vows,  to  the 
Shining  Ones !  I,  Gopi  the  hikshu,  ^ 
will  prove  it.' 

"  Once  again  a  murmur  rose  like  the 
wind  presaging  a  storm,  and  as  the 
crowd  surged  closer  to  the  temple  a 
young  girl  in  the  saffron  drapery  of  a 
pilgrim,  took  advantage  of  the  move- 
ment to  make  her  way  to  the  platform 
with  the  evident  intention  of  pressing 
to  the  old  man's  side  ;  but  she  was 
arrested  by  the  young  Perseus,  who 
with  firm  hands  clasping  hers,  whis- 
pered something  in  her  ear.  She 
smiled  up  at  him,  and  so  they  stood 
hand  in  hand,  eager  but  confident, 
as  the  Brahman's  voice  clear  with 
certainty  dominated  the  confusion. 

"  *  Ay  !  Prove  it !  Prove  that  I, 
Sukya,  taught  of  the  great  Swami, 
twice-born  Brahman,  faithful  disciple, 
blameless  householder,  and  pious  an- 
chorite in  due  turn  as  the  faith  de- 
mands, have  failed  once  in  the  law 
without  repentance  and  atonement ! 
Lo !  I  swear  by  the  Shining  Ones 
that  I  stand  before  ye  to-day  body  and 
soul  holy  to  the  uttermost.' 

"  *  God  gie  us  a  gude  conceit  o' 
oursels,'  muttered  Taylor. 

"  The  remark  jarred  on  me  pain- 
fully, for  the  spiritual  exaltation  in 
the  man's  face  had  nothing  personal  in 
it,  nothing  more  selfish  than  the  rapt 
confidence  which  glorified  the  young 
disciple's  whole  bearing  as  he  gazed  or 

^  Head  of  a  religious  community. 

D  2 


36 


Tkc  Flower  of  Forgiveness. 


his  master  with  the  sort  of  blind 
adoration  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  dog. 

"  *  Think  !  I  am  Sukya  !  *  went  on 
the  high-pitched  voice.  *  Would  Sukya 
come  between  his  brethren  and  the 
Shining  Ones?  I,  chosen  for  the 
oblation  by  reason  of  virtue  and  learn- 
ing ;  I,  Sukya,  journeying  to  Holy 
Amar-nath  not  for  my  own  sake, — for 
1  fear  no  judgment — but  for  the  sake 
of  the  disciple,  yonder  boy  Amra, 
betrothed  to  the  daughter  of  my 
daughter,  and  vowed  •  to  the  pilgrim- 
age from  birth.' 

"  A  yell  of  crackling  laughter  came 
from  the  jogi  as  he  leapt  to  the  bastion 
of  the  bathing-place,  and  so,  raised 
within  sight  of  all,  struck  an  attitude 
of  indignant  appeal.  '  When  was  an 
outcast  vowed  to  pilgrimage  1  And 
by  my  jogis  vow  I  swear  the  boy 
Amra,  disciple  of  Sukya,  to  be  an  out- 
cast. A  Sudra  of  Sudras  !  seeing  that 
his  mother,  being  twice-born,  defiled 
her  race  with  scum  from  beyond  the 
seas.' 

"  *  By  George  ! '  muttered  Taylor 
again,  *  this  is  getting  lively — for  the 
scum.' 

"  *  Perhaps  the  Presence  is  becoming 
tired  of  this  vulgar  scene,'  suggested 
an  obsequious  chuprassi,  who  had  been 
devoted  to  our  service  by  order  of  the 
Cashmere  officials.  But  the  Presences 
were  deeply  interested ;  for  all  that 
I  should  not  care  to  witness  such  a 
sight  again.  The  attention  of  the 
crowd,  centred  a  moment  before  on  the 
jogi,  was  turned  now  on  the  boy,  who 
stood  absolutely  alone  ;  for  the  girl, 
moved  by  the  unreasoning  habit  of  race, 
had  dropped  his  hand  at  the  first  word 
and  crept  to  her  grandfather's  side.  I 
can  see  that  young  face  still,  awful  in 
its  terror,  piteous  in  its  entreaty. 

"  '  Thou  liest,  Gopi ! '  cried  the  Brah- 
man gasping  with  passion  ;  and  at  the 
words  a  gleam  of  hope  crept  to  those 
hunted  eyes.  *  Prove  it,  I  say  ;  for  I 
appeal  to  the  Shining  Ones  whom  I 
have  served.' 

"  *  I  accept  the  challenge,'  yelled  the 
jogi  with  frantic  gestures,  while  a  per- 
fect roar   of  assent,  cries  of  devotion, 


and  prayers  for  guidance,  rose  from 
the  crowd. 

**  Taylor  looked  round  at  me  quickly. 

*  You  are  in  luck.  There  is  going  to 
be  a  miracle.  I  saw  that  Gopi  at 
Hurdwar  once ;  he  is  a  rare  hand  at 
them.'  He  must  have  understood  my 
resentment  at  being  thus  recalled  to  the 
nineteenth  century,  for  he  added  half 
to  himself,  *  'Tis  tragedy  for  all  that, — 
to  the  boy.' 

"  An  appeal  for  silence  enabled  us  to 
hear  that  both  parties  had  agreed  to 
refer  the  question  of  birth  to  the  sacred 
cord,  with  which  every  male  of  the 
three  twice-born  castes  is  invested.  If 
the  strands  were  of  the  pure  cotton 
ordained  by  ritual  to  the  Brahman,  the 
boy  should  be  held  of  pure  blood ;  but 
the  admixture  of  anything  pointing  to 
the  despised  Sudra  would  make  him 
anatJiema  Dui/ranatha,  and  render  his 
master  impure  and  therefore  unfit  to 
lead  the  devotions  of  others. 

"  I  cannot  attempt  to  describe  the 
scene  which  followed ;  for  even  now, 
the  confusion  inseparable  from  finding 
yourself  in  surroundings  which  require 
explanation  before  they  can  fall  into 
their  appointed  place  in  the  picture, 
prevents  me  from  remembering  any- 
thing in  detail, — anything  but  a  surging 
sea  of  saffron  and  white,  a  babel  of 
wild  cries,  *  Hurril  Gungaji  !  Dhurm  ! 
Dhumi  I '  (Hollo  !  Ganges  !  the  Faith  ! 
the  Faith  !)     Then  suddenly  a  roar, — 

*  Gopi  !  a  miracle  !  a  miracle  !  Praise 
be  to  the  Shining  Ones  ! ' 

*'  It  seemed  but  a  moment  ere  the  en- 
thusiastic crowd  had  swept  the  jogi  from 
his  pedestal,  and,  crowned  with  jasmin 
chaplets,  he  was  being  borne  high  on 
men's  shoulders  to  make  a  round  of  the 
various  temples  ;  while  the  keepers  of 
the  shrine  swelled  the  tumult  judi- 
ciously by  cries  of  *  Oblations  !  offer- 
ings !  The  Shining  Ones  are  present 
to-day  ! ' 

"In  my  excitement  at  the  scene 
itself  I  had  forgotten  its  cause,  and 
was  regretting  the  all  too  sudden  end- 
ing of  the  spectacle,  when  Taylor 
touched  me  on  the  arm.  *  The  tragedy 
is  about  to  begin  !     Look  ! ' 


The  Flower  of  Forgiverics^i. 


37 


"  Following  his  eyes  I  saw,  indeed, 
tragedy  enough  to  make  me  forget 
what  had  gone  before ;  yet  I  knew 
well  that  I  did  not,  could  not,  fathom 
its  depth  or  measure  its  breadth.  Still, 
in  a  dim  way  I  realised  that  the  boy, 
standing  as  if  turned  to  stone,  had 
passed  in  those  few  moments  from  life 
as  surely  as  if  a  physical  death  had 
struck  him  down ;  that  he  might  in- 
deed have  been  less  forlorn  had  such 
been  the  case,  since  some  one  for  their 
own  sakes  might  then  have  given  him 
six  feet  of  earth.  And  now,  even  a 
cup  of  water,  that  last  refuge  of  cold 
charity,  was  denied  to  him  for  ever, 
save  from  hands  whose  touch  was  to 
his  Brahmanised  soul  worse  than  death. 
For  him  there  was  no  future.  For  the 
old  man  who,  burdened  by  the  weep- 
ing girl,  stood  opposite  him,  there 
was  no  past.  Nothing  but  a  hell  of 
defilement ;  of  daily,  hourly  impurity 
for  twelve  long  years.  The  thought 
was  damnation. 

"  *  Come,  Premi !  Come  ! '  he  mut- 
tered, turning  suddenly  to  leave  the 
platform.  *  This  is  no  place  for  us 
now.  Quick  !  we  must  cleanse  our- 
selves from  deadly  sin, — from  deadly, 
^    deadly  sin.' 

"  They  had  reached  the  steps  leading 
down  to  the  tank  when  the  boy,  with 
a  sob  like  that  of  a  wounded  animal, 
flung  himself  in  agonised  entreaty  at 
his  master's  feet.  *  Oh,  cleanse  me,  even 
me  also.  Oh  my  father  ! ' 

"  The  old  man  shrank  back  instinct- 
ively ;  yet  there  was  no  nnger,  only 
a  merciless  decision  in  his  face.  *  Ask 
not  the  impossible !  Thou  art  not 
alone  impure ;  thou  art  unclean  sable 
from  birth, — yea  !  for  ever  and  ever. 
Come,  Premi,  come,  my  child.' 

**  I  shall  never  forget  the  cry  which 
echoed  over  the  water,  startling  the 
pigeons  from  their  evening  rest  amid 
the  encircling  trees.  *  Uncleansable 
for  ever  and  ever ! '  Then  in  wild 
appeal  from  earth  to  heaven  he  threw 
his  arms  skyward.  *  Oh,  Shining  Ones  ! 
say  I  am  the  same  Amra  the  twice- 
born,  Amra,  thy  servant !  ' 

"  *  Peace  !  blasphemer  ! '  interrupted 


the  Brahman  sternly.  *  There  are  no 
Shining  Ones  for  such  as  thou.  Go  ! 
lest  they  strike  thee  dead  in  wrath.' 

"  A  momentary  glimpse  of  a  young 
face  distraught  by  despair,  of  an  old 
one  firm  in  repudiation,  and  the  plat- 
form lay  empty  of  the  passions  which 
had  played  their  parts  on  it  as  on  a 
stage.  Only  from  the  distance  came 
the  discordant  triumph  of  th^jogi's  pro- 
cession. 

"  I  besieged  Taylor's  superior  know- 
ledge by  vain  questions,  to  most  of 
which  he  shook  his  head.  *  How  can 
I  telU'  he  said  somewhat  fretfully. 
'  The  cord  was  manipulated  in  some 
way  of  course.  For  all  that,  there 
may  be  truth  in  Gopi's  story.  There  is 
generally  the  devil  to  pay  if  a  Brahmani 
goes  wrong,  and  she  may  have  tried  to 
save  the  boy's  life  by  getting  rid  of 
him.  If  you  want  to  know  more,  I'll 
send  for  Victor  Emanuel.  Five  rupees 
will  fetch  some  slight  fraction  of  truth 
from  the  bottom  of  his  well,  and  that 
as  a  rule  is  all  we  aliens  can  expect  in 
these  incidents.' 

"  So  the  old  ruflfian  came  and  sate 
ostentatiously  far  from  our  contaminat- 
ing influences  in  the  attitude  of  a  bronze 
Buddha,  his  moustaches  curled  to  his 
eyebrows,  his   large   lips  wreathed  in 
solemn  smiles.     *  It  was  a  truly  divine 
miracle,'  he  said,  blandly.     *  Gopi,  the 
bikshu,    never    makes    mistakes    and 
performs    neatly.     Did  the    Presence 
observe    how    neatly?      Within    the 
cotton  marking  the  Brahman  came  the 
hempen  thread  of   the  Kshatriya,  in- 
side again  the  woollen  strand  of  the 
Vaisya ;    all    three    twice-born.     But 
last  of  all,  a  strip  of  cow-skin  defiling 
the  whole.' 

"  *  Why  cow-skin  ? '  I  asked  in  my 
ignorance.  *  I  always  thought  you 
held  a  cow  sacred.' 

"  Victor  Emanuel  beamed  approval. 
*The  little  Presence  is  young  but 
intellifirent.  He  will  doubtless  learn 
much  if  he  questions  the  right  people 
judiciously.  He  will  grow  wise  like 
the  big  Presence,  who  knows  nearly 
as  much  as  we  know  about  some 
things, — but  not  all!  The  cow  is  sacred. 


38 


The  Flower  oj  Forgiveness. 


so  the  skin  telling  of  the  misfortune 
of  the  cow  is  anathema.  Yea,  'twas  a 
divine  miracle.  The  money  of  the 
pious  will  flow  to  make  the  holy  fat ; 
at  least  that  is  what  the  Doctor  aahih 
is  thinking.' 

"  *  Don't  set  up  for  occult  power  on 
the  strength  of  guessing  palpable 
truths,'  replied  Taylor ;  *  that  sort  of 
thing  does  not  amuse  me  ;  but  the 
little  sahib  wants  to  know  how  much 
truth  there  was  in  Gopi's  story.' 

"  *  Gopi  knows,'  retorted  our  friend 
with  a  grin.  *  The  Brahman  saith 
the  boy  was  gifted  to  him  by  a  pious 
woman  after  the  custom  of  thanks- 
giving. Gone  five  years  old,  wearing 
the  sacred  thread,  versed  in  sin) pie 
lore,  intelligent,  well-formed,  as  the 
ritual  demands.  Gopi  saith  the  mother, 
his  wife,  was  a  bad  walker  even  to  the 
length  of  public  bazaars.  Her  people 
sought  her  for  years  but  she  escaped 
them  in  big  towns,  and  ere  they  found 
her  she  had  gained  safety  for  this  boy 
by  palming  him  off  on  Sukya.  'Twas 
easy  for  her,  being  a  Brahmani.  Of 
course  they  made  her  speak  somewhat 
ere  she  fulfilled  her  life,  but  not  the 
name  of  the  anchorite  she  deceived. 
So  Gopi,  knowing  from  the  mother's 
babbling  of  this  mongrel's  blasphem- 
ous name,  and  the  vow  of  pilgrimage 
for  the  expiation  of  sins,  hath  come 
hither,  led  by  the  Spirit,  every  year. 
It  is  a  tale  of  great  virtue  and  edifica- 
tion.' 

"  *  But  the  boy  !  the  wretched  boy  % ' 
I  asked  eagerly.  Taylor  raised  his 
eyebrows  and  watched  my  reception  of 
thQJogia  answer  with  a  half  pitying 
smile. 

**  *  Perhaps  he  will  die  ;  perhaps  not. 
What  does  it  matter  ?  One  born  of 
such  parents  is  dead  to  virtue  from 
the  beginning,  and  life  without  virtue 
is  not  life.' 

**  *  He  might  try  Amar-nath  and  the 
remission  of  sins  you  believe  in  so 
firmly,'  remarked  Taylor  with  another 
look  at  me. 

"  Victor  Emanuel  spat  freely. 
*  There  is  no  Amar-nath  for  such  as 
he,  and  the  Presence  knows  that  as 


well  as  I  do.  No  remission  at  all, 
even  if  he  found  the  flower  of  forgive- 
ness as  the  Doctor  sahib  hopes  to  do.' 

*'  *  Upon  my  soul,'  retorted  Taylor 
impatiently,  *  I  believe  the  existence 
of  the  one  is  about  as  credible  as  the 
other.  I  shall  have  to  swallow  both 
if  I  chance  upon  either.' 

*'*That  may  be;  but  not  for  the 
boy  Amra.  He  will  die  and  be  damned 
in  due  course.' 

"  That  seemed  to  settle  the  question 
for  others,  but  I  was  haunted  by  the 
boy's  look  when  he  heard  the  words, 
'Thou  art  uncleansable  for  ever  and 
ever.' 

"  *  After  all  'tis  only  a  concentrated 
form  of  the  feeling  we  all  have  at 
times,'  remarked  Taylor  drily ;  *  even 
I  should  like  to  do  away  with  a  portion 
of  my  past.  Besides  all  religions 
claim  more  or  less  a  monopoly  of  re- 
pentance. They  are  no  worse  here 
than  at  home.' 

*^  We  journeyed  slowly  to  Amar- 
nath,  watching  the  pilgrims  pass  us 
by  on  the  road,  but  catching  them  up 
again  each  evening  after  long  rambles 
over  the  hills  in  search  of  rare  plants. 
It  is  three  days'  march  by  rights  to 
Shisha  Nag,  or  the  Leaden  Lake,  where 
the  pilgrimage  begins  in  real  earnest 
by  the  pilgrims,  men,  women,  and 
children,  divesting  themselves  of  every 
stitch  of  raiment,  and  journeying  stark 
naked  through  the  snow  and  ice  for 
two  days;  coming  back,  of  course, 
clothed  with  righteousness.  But 
Taylor,  becoming  interested  over  fungi 
in  the  chestnut  woods  of  Chandan- 
warra,  we  paused  there  to  hunt  up  all 
sorts  of  deathly-looking  growths  due 
to  disease  and  decay.  I  was  not  sorry ; 
for  one  pilgrim  possessed  by  frantic 
haste  to  shift  his  sins  to  some  scape- 
goat is  very  much  like  another  pil- 
grim with  the  same  desire  ;  besides  I 
grew  tired  of  Victor  Emanuel,  who 
felt  the  cold  extremely  and  was  in  con- 
sequence seldom  sober,  and  extremely 
loquacious.  I  thought  I  had  nevei- 
seen  such  a  dreary  place  as  Shisha 
Nag,  though  the  sun  shone  brilliantly 
on  its  cliffs  and  glaciers.     I  think  it 


The  Flower  of  Fot^giveness. 


39 


must  have  been  the  irresponsiveness 
of  the  lake  itself  which  deadened  its 
beauties,  for  the  water,  surcharged 
with  gypsum,  lay,  in  pale  green 
stretches  refusing  a  single  reflection  of 
the  hills  which  held  it  so  carefully. 

"  The  next  march  was  awful ;  and 
in  more  than  one  place,  half  hidden  by 
the  flowers  forcing  their  way  through 
the  snow,  lay  the  corpses  of  pilgrims 
who  had  succumbed  to  the  cold  and  the 
exposure. 

"  *  Pneumonia  in  five  out  of  six 
cases,'  remarked  Taylor  casually.  '  If 
it  were  not  for  the  charas  [concoction 
of  hemp]  they  drink  the  mortality 
would  be  fearful.  I  wonder  what 
Exeter  Hall  would  say  to  getting  drunk 
for  purposes  of  devotion.' 

"  At  Punjtarni  we  met  the  return- 
ing pilgrims  ;  among  others  Victor, 
very  sick  and  sorry  for  himself  physi- 
cally, but  of  intolerable  moral  strength. 
He  told  us,  between  the  intervals  of 
petitions  for  pills  and  potions,  that  the 
remaining  fourteen  miles  to  the  Cave 
were  unusually  difficult,  and  had  been 
singularly  fatal  that  year.  On  hear- 
ing this  Taylor,  knowing  my  dislike  to 
horrors,  proposed  taking  a  path  across 
the  hills  instead  of  keeping  to  the 
orthodox  route.  Owing  to  scarcity  of 
water  and  fuel  the  servants  and  tents 
could  only  go  some  five  miles  further 
along  the  ravine,  so  this  suggestion 
would  involve  no  change  of  plan.  He 
added  that  there  would  also  be  a 
greater  chance  of  finding  *  that  blessed 
anemone.'  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw 
so  much  drunkenness,  or  so  much  de- 
votion, as  I  saw  that  evening  at  Punj- 
tarni. It  was  hard  indeed  to  tell 
where  the  one  began  and  the  other 
ended ;  for  excitement,  danger,  and 
privation  lent  their  aid  to  drugs,  and 
a  sense  of  relief  to  both.  The  very 
cliffs  and  glaciers  resounded  with  en- 
thusiasm, and  I  saw  Sukya  and  Premi 
taking  their  part  with  the  rest  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

"  Taylor  and  I  started  alone  next 
morning.  We  were  to  make  a  long 
round  in  search  of  the  Flower  of  For- 
giveness and  came  back  upon  the  Cave 


towards  afternoon.  The  path,  if  path 
it  could  be  called,  was  fearful.  Taylor 
however  was  untiring,  and  at  the 
slightest  hint  of  hope  would  strike  off 
up  the  most  break-neck  places,  leaving 
me  to  rejoin  him  as  best  I  could.  Yet 
not  a  trace  did  we  find  of  the  anemone. 
Taylot  grew  fretful,  and  when  we 
reached  the  snow  slope  leading  to  the 
Cave,  he  declared  it  would  be  sheer 
waste  of  time  for  him  to  go  up. 

"  *  Get  rid  of  your  sins,  if  you  want 
to,  by  all  means,'  he  said  ;  *  I've  seen 
photographs  of  the  place,  and  it's  a 
wretched  imposture  even  as  a  spec- 
tacle. You  have  only  to  keep  up  the 
snow  for  a  mile  and  turn  to  the  left. 
You'll  find  me  somewhere  about  these 
cliffs  on  your  return ;  and  don't  be 
long,  for  the  going  before  us  is  diffi- 
cult.' So  I  left  him  poking  into  every 
crack  and  cranny. 

*'  I  could  scarcely  make  up  my  mind 
if  I  was  impressed  or  disappointed  with 
the  Cave.     Its  extreme  insignificance 
was,  it  is  true,  almost  ludicrous.     Save 
for  a  patch  of  red  paint  and  a  shock- 
ingly bad  attempt  at  a  stone  image  of 
Siva's  bull,  there  was  nothing  to  dis- 
tinguish this  hollow  in  the  rock  from 
a  thousand  similar  ones  all  over  the 
Himalayas.     But  this  very  insignifi- 
cance gave  mystery  to  the  fact  that 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  the  conscience- 
stricken  had    found  consolation  here. 
*  What  went  ye  out  into  the  wilderness  to 
see  ? '     As  I  stood  for  an  instant  at  the 
entrance    before    retracing   my  steps, 
I  could  not  but  think  that  here  was  a 
wilderness   indeed  ;    a    wilderness    of 
treacherous  snow  and  ice-bound  rivers 
peaked  and  piled  up  tumultuously  like 
frozen   waves  against   the   darkening 
sky.    The  memory  of  Taylor's  warning 
not   to    be   late    made    me  try  what 
seemed  a  shorter  and  easier  path  than 
the  one  by  which  I  had  come ;  but  ere 
long  the  usual  difficulties  of  short  cuts 
cropped  up,  and  I  had  eventually  to 
limp  back  to  the  slope  with  a  badly 
cut  ankle  which  bled  profusely  despite 
my  rough  efforts  at  bandaging.     The 
loss  of  blood  was  sufficient  to  make 
me  feel  quite  sick  and  faint,  so  that  it 


40 


The  Flower  of  Forgiveness. 


startled  me  to  come  suddenly  on  Taylor 
sooner  than  I  expected.  He  was  half 
kneeling,  half  sitting  on  the  snow  ; 
his  coat  was  off  and  his  face  bent  over 
something  propped  against  his  arm. 

"  *  It's  that  boy/  he  said  shortly  as 
I  came  up.  *  I  found  him  just  after 
you  left,  lying  here, — to  rest  he  says. 
It  seems  he  has  been  making  his  way 
to  the  Cave  ever  since  that  day,  with- 
out bite  or  sup,  by  the  hills,  — God 
knows  how — to  avoid  being  turned 
back  by  the  others.  And  now  he  is 
dying,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.' 

"  *  The  boy, — not  Amra  ! '  I  cried, 
bending  in  my  turn. 

"  Sure  enough  on  Taylor's  arm,  with 
Taylor's  coat  over  his  wasted  body,  lay 
the  young  disciple.  His  great  lumin- 
ous eyes  looked  out  of  a  face  whence 
even  death  could  not  drive  the  beauty, 
and  his  breath  came  in  laboured  gasps. 

"  *  Brandy  !  I  have  some  here,'  I 
suggested  in  hot  haste,  moved  to  the 
idiotic  suggestion  by  that  horror  of 
standing  hel^Jess  which  besets  us  all 
ill  presence  of  the  Destroyer. 

**  Taylor  looked  at  the  boy  with  a 
grave  smile  and  shook  his  head.  *  To 
begin  with  he  wouldn't  touch  it; 
besides  he  is  past  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  No  one  could  help  him  now.' 
He  paused,  shifting  the  weight  a  little 
on  his  arm. 

**  *  The  Presence  will  grow  tired 
holding  me,'  gasped  the  young  voice 
feebly.  *  If  the  sahib  will  put  a  stone 
under  my  head  and  cover  me  with 
some  snow,  I  will  be  able  to  crawl  on 
by  and  by  when  I  am  rested.  For  it 
is  close, — quite  close.' 

"  *  Very  close,'  muttered  the  Doctor 
under  his  breath.  Suddenly  he  looked 
up  at  me,  saying  in  a  half  apologetic 
way,  *  I  was  wondering  if  you  and  I 
couldn't  get  him  up  there, — to  Amar- 
nath  I  mean.  Life  has  been  hard  on 
him  ;  he  deserves  an  easy  death.' 

*'*0f  course  we  can,'  I  cried  in  a 
rush  of  content  at  the  suggestion,  as  I 
hobbled  round  to  get  to  the  other  side 
and  so  help  the  lad  to  his  legs. 

**  *  Hollo,'  asked  Taylor  with  a  quick 
professional  glance.     *  What  have  you 


done  to  your  ankle  ?     Sit  down   and 
let  me  overhaul  it.' 

**  In  vain  I  made  light  of  it,  in  vain 
I  appealed  to  him.  He  peremptorily 
forbade  my  stirring  for  another  hour, 
asserting  that  I  had  injured  a  small 
artery  and  without  caution  might  find 
difficulty  in  reaching  the  tents,  as  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  help 
me  much  on  the  sort  of  ground  over 
which  we  had  to  travel. 

*' '  But  the  boy,  Taylor  !— the  boy  ! ' 
I  pleaded.  *  It  would  be  awful  to 
leave  him  here.' 

"  '  Who  said  he  was  to  be  left  ? ' 
retorted  the  Doctor  crossly.  *  I'm 
going  to  carry  him  up  as  soon  as  I've 
finished  ban<laging  your  leg.  Don't 
be  in  such  a   blessed  hurry.' 

"  '  Carry  him  1  You  can't  do  it  up 
that  slope,  strong  as  you  are,  Taylor, 
— I  know  you  can't.' 

"  *  Can't  1 '  he  echoed  as  he  stood 
up  from  his  labours.  *Look  at  him 
and   say  can't  again, — if  you  can.' 

"  I  looked  and  saw  that  the  boy, 
but  half  conscious,  yet  restored  to  the 
memory  of  his  object  by  the  touch  of 
the  snow  on  which  Taylor  had  laid 
him  while  engaged  in  bandaging  my 
foot,  had  raised  himself  painfully  on 
his  hands  and  knees  and  was  struggling 
upwards,  blindly,  doggedly. 

"  *  Hang  it  all,'  continued  the  Doc- 
tor fiercely,  *  isn't  that  sight  enough 
to  haunt  a  man  if  he  doesn't  try? 
Besides  I  may  find  that  precious 
flower, — who  knows  1 ' 

"As  he  spoke  he  stooped  with  the 
gentleness  not  so  much  of  sympathy, 
as  of  long  practice  in  suffering,  over 
the  figure  which,  exhausted  by  its 
brief  effort,  already  lay  prostrate  on 
the  snow. 

"  *  What  is — the  Presence — going — 
to  do  1 '  moaned  Amra  doubtfully  as 
he  felt  the  strong  arms  close  round 
him. 

"  *  You  and  I  are  going  to  find  the 
remission  of  sins  together  at  Amar- 
n^th,'  replied  the  Presence  with  a 
bitter  laugh. 

"The  boy's  head  fell  back  on  the 
Doctor's  shoulder  as  if  accustomed  to 


The  Flower  of  Forgiveness, 


41 


the  resting-place.  *  Amar-nHth  !  *  he 
murmured.  *  Yes !  I  am  Amar- 
ii4th.' 

"So  I  sate  there  helpless,  and 
watched  them  up  the  slope.  Every 
slip,  every  stumble,  seemed  as  if  it 
were  my  own.  I  clenched  my  hands 
and  set  my  teeth  as  if  I  too  had  part 
in  the  supreme  effort,  and  when  the 
straining  figure  passed  out  of  sight  I 
hid  my  face  and  tried  not  to  think. 
It  was  the  longest  hour  I  ever  spent 
before  Taylor's  voice  holloing  from  the 
cliff  above  roused  me  to  the  certainty 
of  success. 

"  *  And  the  boy  ? '  I  asked  eagerly. 

**  *  Dead  by  this  time  I  expect,'  re- 
plied the  Doctor  shortly.  *Come  on, 
— there's  a  good  fellow — we  haven't  a 
moment  to  lose.  I  must  look  again 
for  the  flower  to-morrow.' 

"  But  letters  awaiting  our  return  to 
camp  recalled  him  to  duty  on  account 
of  cholera  in  the  regiment ;  so  there 
was  an  end  of  anemone  hunting.  The 
101st  suffered  terribly,  and  Taylor  was 
in  consequence  hotter  than  ever  over 
experiments.    The  result  you  know." 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow !  but  the  anemone? 
I  don't  understand  how  it  came  here." 

My  friend  paused.  "  That  is  the 
odd  thing.  I  was  looking  after  the 
funeral  and  all  that,  for  Taylor  and  I 
were  great  friends, — he   left  me  that 


herbarium  in  memory  of  our  time  in 
Cashmere — well,  when  I  went  over  to 
the  house  about  an  hour  before  to  see 
everything  done  properly,  his  bearer 
brought  'me  one  of  those  little  flat 
straw  baskets  the  natives  use.  It  had 
been  left  during  my  absence,  he  said,^ 
by  a  young  Brahman  who  assured 
him  that  it  contained  something  which 
the  great  Doctor  aahih  had  been  very 
anxious  to  possess,  and  which  was  now 
sent  by  some  one  to  whom  he  had 
been  very  kind. 

"  *  You  told  him  the  sahib  was  dead, 
I  suppose  1 '  I  asked. 

"This  slave  informed  him  that  the 
master  had  gained  freedom,  but  he 
replied  it  was  no  matter,  as  all  his 
task  was  this.  On  opening  the  bas- 
ket I  found  a  gourd  such  as  the  disci- 
ples carry  round  for  alms,  and  in  it, 
planted  among  gypsum  debris^  was  that 
anemone ;  or  rather  that  is  a  part  of 
it,  for  I  put  some  in  Taylor's  coffin." 

"  Ah  !  1  presume  the  gosain — Vic- 
tor Emanuel  I  think  you  called  him — 
sent  the  plant ;  he  knew  of  the  Doc- 
tor's desire?" 

"  Perhaps.  The  bearer  said  the 
Brahman  was  a  very  handsome  boy ; 
very  fair,  dressed  in  the  usual  black 
antelope  skin  of  the  disciple.  It  is  a 
queer  story  anyhow, — is  it  not  ? " 


42 


OFF  THE   AZORES. 


To  the  geographers  of  the  ancient 
world  the  Azores  were  unknown. 
From  the  number  of  Phoenician  coins 
found  in  Corvo,  one  of  the  north-west- 
em  group,  it  is  believed  that  those 
bold  sailors  must  have  visited  them, 
and  possibly  left  a  settlement  there. 
But  if  the  ancients  knew  them,  they 
have  left  no  record  of  their  knowledge. 
The  Canaries  they  knew,  and  called 
them  the  Fortunate  Islands,  pleasing 
themselves  with  the  pretty  fancy  that 
there  after  death  the  shades  of  their 
great  heroes  dwelt,  happy  and  careless 
in  a  land  of  eternal  summer,  as  in 
some 

-lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 


Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a 

wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 

mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm. 

But  of  the  Azores  there  is  no  hint  even 
till  the  twelfth  century,  when  Edrisi, 
the  famous  Arabian  traveller,  made  for 
Eoger,  King  of  Sicily,  a  mighty  globe 
of  silver,  and  placed  these  islands  there- 
on. Yet  even  Edrisi  knew  no  name 
for  them,  and  in  the  work  he  wrote  to 
explain  his  globe  he  gave  them  none. 
We  believe  the  group  of  islands  he 
visited  in  the  western  seas  to  have  been 
the  Azores  because  he  mentions  their 
exact  number,  nine,  and  because  he 
writes  of  a  species  of  sparrowhawk 
as  being  very  common  on  them, 
and  the  name  Azores  signifies  in 
the  Portuguese  tongue  the  Hawk 
Islands. 

Not  till  three  centuries  later  did 
they  become  really  known  to  Euro- 
peans. In  1439  Joshua  Van  derBerg, 
a  native  of  Bruges,  on  a  voyage  from 
Lisbon  to  the  African  coast,  was  driven 
down  to  them  by  stress  of  weather,  and 


carried  the  news  back  to  the  Portu- 
guese court.  Cabral,  the  future  dis- 
coverer of  Brazil,  was  forthwith  dis- 
patched to  spy  out  the  new  land,  and 
his  report  being  favourable,  the  work 
of  colonising  began.  Edrisi  has  written 
of  these  islands  as  showing  traces  of 
having  once  been  the  home  of  a  con- 
siderable people,  and  still  in  his  day  in- 
habited ;  but  the  Portuguese  colonists 
seem  to  have  found  no  inhabitants 
but  the  sparrowhawks.  Themselves 
clearly  of  volcanic  growth,  the  Azores 
have  always  suffered  sadly  from  intes- 
tine commotions ;  and  very  probably 
the  people  and  the  cities  of  whom  the 
Arabian  wrote  had  perished  "  so  as  by 
fire  "  long  before  the  Fleming's  visit ; 
perhaps  even  the  very  islands  Edrisi 
saw  had  gone  down  again  into  the 
great  deep  whence  they  came,  and 
others  had  taken  their  place.  Later 
travellers  have  recorded  more  than  one 
such  rising  and  setting.  On  December 
10th,  1720,  one  John  Robison,  master 
of  a  small  English  trading-vessel,  saw 
a  fire  break  out  of  the  sea  off  Terceira, 
and  out  of  the  fire  an  island,  as  duly 
reported  in  the  thirty -second  volume 
of  the  Philosophical  IVansactions, 
Again,  in  the  present  century,  the  cap- 
tain of  an  English  man-of-war  was 
witness  to  a  similar  birth  almost  on  the 
same  spot,  accompanied,  like  the  for- 
mer, with  fire  and  smoke  and  a  noise 
as  of  thunder  and  great  guns.  The 
captain,  perhaps  with  some  confused 
memories  of  Milton,  gave  to  the  island 
the  name  of  Sabrina ;  but  it  did  not 
bear  its  name  long,  being  soon  washed 
back  into  limbo  by  the  angry  waves. 
Then,  a  year  or  two  later,  a  certain 
captain  of  dragoons,  voyaging  in  search 
of  health,  beheld  a  similar  phenome- 
non :  "a  most  awful  and  tremendous 
explosion  of  smoke  and  flames,"  vomit- 
ing cinders   and   ashes,  stones  of  an 


Off  tJic  Azores, 


43 


immense  size,  and  fish,  "  some  nearly 
roasted,  and  others  as  if  boiled."  It 
will  be  remembered  that  when  H.M.S. 
B<vrha/m  was  carrying  Sir  Walter  Scott 
on  that  sad  journey  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean, she  came  to  a  similar  birth 
some  two  days  sail  from  Malta.  Four 
months  earlier  Graham's  Island  had 
risen  from  the  sea,  and,  as  though  wait- 
ing only  for  the  Great  Magician,  after 
he  had  passed  sank  back  into  it. 

In  1580  the  Azores  came  under  the 
power  of  Spain,  and  in  the  history  of 
the  next  twenty  years  their  name  is 
frequent  as  the  favourite  battle-ground 
of  the  English  and  Spanish  fleets.  The 
partiality  was,  indeed,  mainly  on  the 
side  of  the  former,  and  for  a  good 
reason.  These  islands  lay  right  in  the 
track  of  all  vessels  sailing  to  and  from 
that  enchanted  region  known  then  to 
all  men  as  the  Spanish  Main.  On  the 
highest  peak  of  Terceira,  whence  in 
clear  weather  the  sea  could  be  scanned 
for  leagues  round,  were  raised  two 
columns,  and  by  them  a  man  watched 
night  and  day.  When  he  saw  any  sails 
approaching  from  the  west,  he  set  a 
flag  upon  the  western  column,  one  for 
each  sail ;  if  they  came  from  the  east 
a  similar  sign  was  set  up  on  the  eastern 
column.  Hither  in  those  days  came 
up  out  of  the  mysterious  western  seas 
the  great  argosies  laden  with  gold  and 
silver  and  jewels,  with  silks  and  spices 
and  rare  woods,  wrung  at  the  cost  of 
thousands  of  harmless  lives  and  cruel- 
ties unspeakable  from  the  fair  lands 
which  lie  between  the  waters  of  the 
Caribbean  Sea  and  the  giant  wall  of 
the  Andes.  And  hither,  when  Eng- 
land too  began  to  turn  her  eyes  to  El 
Dorado,  came  the  great  war-galleons 
of  Spain  and  Portugal  to  meet  these 
precious  cargoes  and  convoy  them  safe 
into  Lisbon  or  Cadiz  before  those 
terrible  English  sea- wolves  could  get 
scent  of  the  prize. 

When  English  ships  first  touched  at 
the  Azores  we  have  no  certain  record. 
About  1563  the  Spaniards  found  five 
brigs  from  Bristol  and  Barnstaple 
loading  wood  there,  clapped  the  crews 
into  irons,  and  carried  them  and  their 


cargoes  into  Cadiz.  But  the  islands 
may  have  been  known  to  our  sailors 
before  this.  The  great  impulse  given 
tq  maritime  activity  by  Henry  YIII. 
which  began  with  William  Haw- 
kins's voyages  to  Guinea  and  Brazil 
in  1530,  had  sent  the  English  flag  into 
many  strange  waters  and  on  many 
strange  errands.  There  is  no  use  in 
mincing  the  matter ;  we  were  terrible 
water-thieves  in  those  times.  All  was 
fish  that  came  to  our  net ;  French, 
Spaniards,  Dutch,  our  men  had  at 
them  all,  with  a  splendid  disregard  of 
the  rights  of  property  and  international 
amities.  To  be  sure  the  booty  we  took 
from  our  neighbours  they  in  their  turn 
had  taken  from  the  rightful  owners, 
and  with  even  less  ceremony.  There 
was  no  open  war  with  Spain  till  1588, 
but  Elizabeth  had  a  most  convenient 
way  of  publicly  deprecating  the  riotous 
acts  of  her  subjects,  when  she  found  it 
convenient  to  do  so,  and  roundly  en- 
couraging them  in  private.  An  un- 
queenly  trick,  perhaps,  and  apt  to  con- 
fuse the  law  of  nations  ;  yet  mightily 
useful  to  her,  and  to  England.  These 
sea-roving  ancestors  of  ours  were,  it 
should  never  be  forgotten,  the  real 
founders  of  the  English  Empire.  To  talk 
of  them  only  as  rovers  and  buccaneers, 
which  some  dealers  in  history  have 
affected  to  do,  is  not  only  grossly  unfair 
to  the  memory  of  many  great  and  good 
men,  but  shows  also  a  most  inadequate 
conception  of  the  facts  of  the  case  and  of 
the  conditions  and  circumstances  of  the 
time.  It  is  true  enough  that  there  were 
some  among  them  who  had  no  thought 
but  to  enrich  themselves  by  plunder, 
and  cared  not  how  the  plunder  was  got 
or  whence.  But  the  best  of  them  had 
larger  and  nobler  aims  than  this. 
They  were  fighting  for  their  country 
and  their  religion,  for  in  those  days 
Englishmen  were  not  ashamed  to  be 
fond  and  proud  of  both.  Neither  could 
exist,  as  Englishmen  were  determined 
they  should  exist,  while  Spain  remained 
what  she  then  was ;  and  the  power  of 
Spain  could  be  broken  only  on  the  sea 
— only  by  striking  at  the  source  of 
that  vast  golden  stream  she  drew  from 


44. 


Off  the  Azores, 


the  mines  of  the  New  World  to  keep 
the   Old   in  chains.     While  it  suited 
their  Queen's  policy  that  the  men  who 
set  themselves  to  this  vital  work  should 
do  so  at  their  own  risk,  at  their  own 
risk  they  did  it,  and  found,  as  we  know 
well,  good  reason  not  to  quarrel  with 
the  conditions.     The  most  part  of  the 
famous  deeds  enshrined  in  the  immortal 
pages  of  Hakluyt,  which  read  almost 
like  the  exploits  of  the  heroes  of  Greek 
myth  or  Northern  saga,  were  done  by 
private  venture,  helped  sometimes  by 
the  purses  of  such  men  as  Cecil  and 
Walsingham,  Essex  and  Leicester,  or 
even  of  the  Queen  herself,  but  prac- 
tically undertaken  at  the  risk  of  pri- 
vate and  not  wealthy  individuals.  The 
labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.      They 
served  their  country  nobly,  and  paid 
themselves  for   their    service,  not    at 
their  country's  cost.  In  all  their  direct 
dealings  with  the  Indians  themselves, 
the  rightful  lords  of  all  this  treasure, 
they  bore   themselves —with   the   one 
black  exception,  let  it  be  owned,  of  the 
Guinea  slave-trade — justly  and  merci- 
fully, in  such  striking  contrast  to  the 
white  men  who  had  forerun  them,  that 
the  name  of  Englishman  grew  to  be  as 
much  loved  on  those  coasts  as  the  name 
of  Spaniard  to  be  hated.     And  indeed 
the  cause  they  fought  for  was  as  much 
the   cause   of    those   poor   persecuted 
creatures  as  their  own.     To  fight  the 
Spanish  devils  was  as  much  their  glory 
as  their  profit ;  as  much  their  duty  to 
humanity    as    their    duty     to     their 
country.     The    English    sailors,    half 
mad  with  righteous  fury  at  the  awful 
tales  they  had  heard  and  had  but  too 
good  reason  to  believe,  were  as  ready 
to  lay  their  little  cockboats  alongside 
some  great  war- galleon,  bristling  with 
a  triple  tier  of  guns  and  crammed  to 
the  teeth  with  musketmen  and  archers, 
as  to  cut  out  a  defenceless  plate-ship 
from  the  harbours  of  Chili  or  Peru.  But 
after  the  large  spirit  and  eloquence  in 
which  Charles  Kingsley  and  Mr.  Froude 
have  done  those  old  heroes  justice,  they 
need  no  third  defender. 

The  first  Englishman  whose  exploits 
at  the  Azores  have  made  a  figure  in 


history  was  George  Fenner,  a  well- 
known  name  in  the  sea-stories  of  the 
time.  We  have  no  particulars  of  him, 
where  he  was  born,  or  when,  or  of 
what  family.  His  name  is  first  known 
in  connection  with  these  islands,  but 
afterwards  he  became  a  man  of  mark. 
On  the  great  day  of  the  Armada  he 
commanded  the  Leicester,  one  of  the 
finest  ships  of  the  English  van,  and  is 
especially  noted  by  the  old  chronicler 
for  his  bravery  in  the  most  furious 
and  bloody  moment  of  the  modem 
Salamis.  He  is  described  there  as  a 
man,  like  Auhis  the  Dictator,  of  many 
fights ;  and  this  fight  off  the  Azores 
was  the  most  famous  of  them. 

He  sailed  from  Plymouth  on  Decem- 
ber 10th,  1566,  with  three  ships,  the 
Castle  of  Comfort,  the  May  Flower,  and 
the  George,  and  a  pinnace.  Their 
tonnage  is  not  given,  but  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  the  largest  of 
them  was  not  of  a  hundred  tons  bur- 
den. Edward  Fenner,  George's  bro- 
ther, was  captain  of  the  May  Flower, 
and  Robert  Curtis  of  the  George  ;  the 
Admiral,  or  General,  as  the  senior 
officer  was  indiscriminately  called, 
hoisted  his  flag  on  the  Castle  of  Com- 
fort. The  Guinea  coast  was  their 
goal,  and  their  object  was  trade  in 
such  commodities  as  they  could  come 
by,  including,  probably,  some  of  those 
black  commodities  William  Hawkins 
first  taught  Englishmen  to  look  for. 
After  a  short  stay  at  Teneriffe,  they 
made  Cape  Yerde  on  January  19th, 
and  here  their  troubles  began.  They 
found  the  negroes  minded  rather  to 
fight  than  to  trade ;  through  no  mis- 
conduct of  their  own,  but  in  revenge, 
so  they  were  told,  for  a  raid  made  a 
short  while  before  by  an  English  slaver. 
There  was  some  sharp  and  rather 
dangerous  fighting,  the  negroes  using 
arrows  steeped  in  an  uncurable  poison. 
"  If  the  arrow,"  we  read,  "  enter  within 
the  skin  and  draw  blood,  and  except 
the  poison  be  presently  sucked  out,  or 
the  place  where  any  man  is  hurt  be 
forthwith  cut  away,  he  dieth  within 
four  days,  and  within  three  hours 
after  they  be  hurt  or  pricked,  where- 


Off  the  Azoo'es. 


i5 


soever  it  be,  although  but  at  the  little 
toe,  yet  it  striketh  up  to  the  heart, 
and  taketh  away  the  stomach,  and 
causeth  the  party  marvellously  to 
vomit,  being  able  to  brook  neither  meat 
nor  drink."  Incurable  or  not,  four  of 
Fenner's  men  died  from  the  effects, 
and  another  was  only  saved  by  the 
amputation  of  his  arm.  At  Buona 
Yista  and  Mayo  they  fared  better,  but 
at  St.  Jago  narrowly  escaped  a  snare 
set  for  them  by  some  Portuguese  men- 
of-war  ;  and  so,  thinking  those  parts 
rather  too  hot  for  them,  after  a  visit 
to  Fuego,  they  bore  away  for 
the  Azores.  On  April  18th  they 
watered  at  Flores,  and  on  May  8th 
dropped  anchor  off  Terceira. 

It  was  verily  a  case  of  the  fire  for 
the  frying-pan.  The  morning  after  their 
arrival  came   in    sight   a   Portuguese 
galliass   of  four  hundred  tons,  with  a 
crew    of    three     hundred     men    and 
mounted  with  many  guns,  some  throw- 
ing shot  as  large  as  a   man's   head. 
She  was  escorted  by  two  caravels,  each 
well  armed  and  manned  ;   and  Fenner 
saw  there  was  hot  work  in  store  for 
the  Castle  of  Comfort.     It  was  to  be 
even  hotter  than  he  expected.     The 
galliass  was  reinforced  in  the  course  of 
the  day  by  fresh  crews  from  the  shore, 
and   on   the   next    morning    by   four 
great   caravels   more,   or   armadas  as 
they   were   called,   the  word   armada 
originally  signifying  any  armed  force. 
The  enemy  now  mustered  seven  ships, 
of  which  three  were  larger  than  the 
Englishman,    and  one   of    them   four 
times    as   large.      Neither    the   May 
Flower  nor  the  George  could  help  their 
consort.      Probably    they    were    too 
small  to  have   been  of   much  service 
against   such    big   game,  though   the 
George  was  able  to  give  a  very  good 
account  of    herself    in  a  brush  with 
some  of    the  caravels.     But   through 
the  most  part  of  the  time  the  wind 
kept  them  out  of  the  fight,  as  it  did 
our  Dutch  allies  on  the  gieat  day  of 
La  Hogue,  and   George   Fenner   had 
to  play  his  own  game  as  best  he  could. 
He  certainly  contrived  to  play  it  pretty 
well.   For  three  days  the  little  English 


ship  kept  her  seven  assailants  at  bay, 
having  sometimes  as  many  as  three  in 
hand  at  once.  In  the  night  they  left 
her  alone,  but  she  had  little  time  to  spare 
for  rest,  "  having  as  much  as  we  coiild 
do  to  mend  our  ropes,  and  to  strengthen 
our  bulwarks,  putting  our  trust  in 
God,  and  resolving  ourselves  rather  to 
die  in  our  defence  than  to  be  taken  by 
such  wretches."  On  the  third  morn- 
ing, the  11th  of  May,  all  the  seven 
came  down  together  on  the  little 
Castle  to  make  an  end  of  her.  "  Hol- 
loing and  whooping  "  they  came  down, 
"  making  account  either  to  board  us 
or  else  to  sink  us  :  but  although  our 
company  was  but  small,  yet  lest  they 
should  see  us  any  whit  dismayed,  when 
they  hollowed  we  hollowed  also  as  fast 
as  they,  and  waved  to  them  to  come 
and  board  us  if  they  durst,  but  that 
they  would  not,  seeing  us  still  so 
com-agious :  and  having  given  us  that 
day  four  fights,  at  night  they  forsook 
us  with  shame,  as  they  came  to  us  at 
the  first  with  pride."  "  Then,"  goes 
on  the  old  chronicle,  "  we  directed  our 
course  for  our  own  country";  and 
so  ended  the  first  of  those  great  sea- 
fights  which  were  to  make  the  name 
of  the  English  sailor  a  name  of  might 
in  all  waters. 

Twenty  years  later  Raleigh,  then  on 
the  flood-tide  of  his  fortune  and  with 
all  his  hundred  irons  hot  in  the  fire, 
despatched  a  couple  of  vessels  to  the 
Azores  —the  Ma/ry  Sparke  of  fifty  tons, 
and  the  Serpent  of  thirty-five.  John 
Evesham,  gentleman,  one  of  the  com- 
pany, tells  the  story  of  the  voyage 
with  a  most  serene  simplicity  of  lan- 
guage. "  Not  greatly  respecting  whom 
we  took,  so  that  we  might  have  en- 
riched ourselves,  which  was  the  cause 
of  this  our  travail,"  we  "  flew  false 
colours,  and  thereby  made  some  pretty 
pickings,  including  the  governors  of 
St.  Michael  and  the  Straits  of  Magel- 
lan." On  their  way  home  they  fell  in 
with  one  of  the  Spanish  plate-fleets  of 
twenty-four  sail,  escorted  by  two  car- 
racks  of  twelve  hundred  and  a  thou- 
sand tons.  Right  into  the  midst  of  this 
goodly  company  dashed  the  Englishmen 


46 


Off  the  Azoi^es. 


with  their  prize  in  tow,  and  for  two- 
and-thirty  hours  fought  them  .  right 
and  left,  as  they  cared  to  come  on, 
with  the  utmost  content  and  cheerful- 
ness. But  powder  running  short,  and 
the  big  carracks  proving  rather  too  big, 
the  Mary  Sparke  and  the  Serpent  at 
last  gave  over,  and,  with  their  prize 
still  safe,  made  good  their  way  home 
into  Plymouth,  where  they  were  re- 
ceived, as  was  fitting,  with  great 
honour,  all  the  town  and  the  country- 
side turning  out  to  welcome  them  with 
firing  of  guns  and  music,  "  with  shouts 
and  clapping,  and  noise  of  weeping 
loud." 

In  1592  Raleigh  picked  up  a  finer 
prize  still  in  these  waters,  and  but  for 
the  misadventure  with  the  fair  Throck- 
morton, would  have  picked  it  up  with 
his  own  hands.  He  had  indeed  already 
sailed,  but  was  recalled  by  the  Queen, 
his  fleet  going  on  under  charge  of 
Frobisher  and  Sir  John  Burrough. 
The  former  had  orders  to  cruise  off  the 
Spanish  coast ;  the  latter  was  sent  to 
the  Azores.  Both  were  successful. 
Frobisher  took,  off  St.  Lucas,  a  great 
Biscayan  of  six  hundred  tons,  laden 
with  iron-work  worth  several  thousand 
pounds.  But  the  great  prize  fell  to 
his  colleague,  the  Madre  de  Dioa  of 
sixteen  hundred  tons,  with  a  cargo 
valued  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds,  precious  stones,  ivory  and 
ebony,  rare  spices  and  drugs,  porcelain 
ware,  Turkey  carpets,  and  embroideries, 
silks,  cloths,  linens,  and  calicoes,  the 
largest  and  richest  prize  ever  brought 
into  England,  richer  even  and  larger 
than  the  St.  Philip,  the  great  Portu- 
guese carrack  taken  by  Drake  off  the 
same  islands  five  years  before. 

But  the  Azores  were  not  always 
destined  to  bring  luck  to  Raleigh.  His 
next  venture  there  was  in  1597,  when 
a  great  fleet  was  sent  out  under  the 
command  of  Essex,  with  Raleigh  and 
Lord  Thomas  Howard  as  vice-admirals. 
Their  prime  purpose  was  to  destroy 
the  new  Armada  Philip  had  got  ready 
against  our  coasts,  which  was  believed 
to  be  lying  in  Ferrol.  But  of  course 
the  plate-fleets  and  rich  carracks  gene- 


rally were  not  to  be  neglected,  and 
there  was  some  talk  of  taking  the 
Azores  themselves.  The  expedition 
was  something  very  like  a^osco,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  E;aleigh  would  have 
been  quite  one,  and  a  dangerous  one 
to  boot.  A  few  prizes  were  picked  up, 
and  Fayal  was  taken.  But  the  great 
plate-fleet  was  missed,  solely  through 
the  perversity  of  Essex  ;  and  while  the 
English  squadrons  were  cruising  aim- 
lessly about,  the  Armada  sailed  from 
the  Groyne  for  our  defenceless  coasts. 
Happily  for  us  it  was  the  story  of  1588 
over  again.  "  The  Lord,"  as  old  Sal- 
vation Yeo  said  on  that  glorious  July 
morning  when  the  Spanish  admiral 
signalled  to  cut  sails  and  run,  "the 
Lord  was  fighting  for  His  people.'* 
Afflavit  Devs  et  dissipati  aunt. 

But  the  most  memorable  of  all  the 
actions  fought  off  the  Azores,  the  one 
which  poetry  and  history  have  vied 
with  each  other  in  adorning,  was  that 
between  a  Spanish  fleet  of  fifty-three 
sail  and  a  single  English  ship,  the 
Revenge,  commanded  by  Sir  Richard 
Grenville.  The  fame  of  this  wonderful 
fight  was  spread  abroad  into  all  lands, 
and  Grenville  and  his  Englishmen 
have  taken  their  place  now  in  Yal- 
halla  beside  Leonidas  and  his  Spartans. 
Raleigh  published  the  first  account 
anonymously  in  1590,  the  year  of  the 
fight,  and  this  was  republished  with 
the  writer's  name  eight  years  later  by 
Hakluyt  in  his  second  volume.  Sir 
William  Monson,  himself  a  Paladin  of 
those  days,  was  another  of  its  histo- 
rians, and  Linschoten,  the  Dutch  travel- 
ler, who  was  in  the  islands  at  the  time, 
gave  his  version  of  it.  Sir  Richard 
Hawkins,  the  Complete  Seaman  as 
men  called  him,  son  of  Admiral  John, 
enshrined  it  in  his  Observations,  which 
were  not  published  however  till  1622, 
after  his  death.  Gervase  Markham, 
still  remembered  for  his  writings  on 
husbandry  and  field-sports,  and  better 
qualified  perhaps  to  handle  the  Georgica 
than  the  jEneid,  but  like  so  many  of 
his  time  dexterous  at  rhyming,  pub- 
lished a  poem  in  Sir  Richard's  honour. 
Bacon,  in  his  Conaiderationa  Touching  a 


Off  the  Azores. 


47 


War  with  Spain,  styled  the  fight 
"memorable  even  beyond  credit,  and 
to  the  height  of  some  heroieal  fable." 
In  later  days  Hume,  a  man  certainly 
not  given  to  sentiment,  thought  it  "  so 
singular  as  to  merit  a  more  particular 
relation,"  and  gave  it  one  with  the 
help  of  Raleigh.  Charles  Kingsley  has 
praised  it  in  a  spirit  of  enthusiasm 
worthy  of  the  heroes  themselves  ;  Mr. 
Froude  has  given  it  a  special  place  of 
honour  in  his  fine  eulogy  on  England^ 8 
Forgotten  Worthies,  which  did  some- 
thing in  its  day  to  bring  them  back 
into  memory ;  how  nobly  our  Poet 
Laureate  has  sung  of  it  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  should  know. 

Sir  Richard  Grenville  was  a  Cornish- 
man  of  noble  blood,  tracing  his  line 
directly  back,  so  the  family  pedigree 
said,  to  Rollo  Duke  of  Normandy.  He 
had  lands  at  Kilhampton  in  the  north 
of  Cornwall,  and  at  Stow  near  Bideford 
in  Devon,  where  he  seems  to  have 
mostly  lived  when  on  shore.  His 
father  Roger,  himself  a  famous  sailor, 
was  one  of  those  who  went  down  in 
the  Mary  Rose  off  Portsmouth  quay 
under  the  King's  own  eyes.  Young 
Richard  was  fighting  the  Turks  under 
Maximilian  in  Hungary  when  only 
sixteen  years  old.  In  1571  he  repre- 
sented Cornwall  in  Parliament,  and  in 
1577  was  made  high  sheriff  of  the 
county  and  a  knight.  In  1585  he 
commanded  the  squadron  which  took 
out  Raleigh's  first  colony  to  Virginia, 
and  in  the  following  year  sailed  there 
again  with  supplies  for  the  settlers, 
whom,  half  starved,  and  sadly  dimin- 
ished in  numbers,  Drake  had  mean- 
while carried  home.  In  both  voyages 
he  laid  hands  on  a  fat  prize  or  two, 
and  also  won  the  reputation  of  being 
rather  a  hard  master  to  serve  with. 
Ralph  Lane,  the  captain  of  the  Vir- 
ginian colonists,  made  complaints  to 
Walsingham  of  Sir  Richard's  tyranni- 
cal conduct  and  intolerable  pride,  and 
desired  to  be  excused  from  ever  serving 
under  him  again  in  any  circumstances 
or  on  any  service.  Sir  Richard  had 
himself  something  to  say  on  the  other 
side,  so  Lane's  evidence  must  be  taken 


for  what  it  is  worth.  But  there  is 
little  doubt  that  our  hero  was  of  a  tem- 
per unusually  imperious  and  masterful 
even  for  those  times,  when  discipline 
practically  meant  obedience  to  the 
stronger  hand.  Linschoten  tells  a  curi- 
ous story  '>f  him.  "  This  Sir  Richard 
Greenfield  ^  "  he  says,  "  was  a  great 
and  a  rich  gentleman  in  England,  but 
he  was  a  man  very  unquiet  in  his  mind, 
and  greatly  affected  to  war  .  .  .  He 
had  performed  many  valiant  acts,  and 
was  greatly  feared  in  these  islands,  and 
known  of  every  man,  but  of  nature 
very  severe,  so  that  his  own  people 
hated  him  for  his  fierceness,  and  spake 
very  hardly  of  him.  .  .  .  He  was  of 
so  hardy  a  complexion,  that  as  he  con- 
tinued among  the  Spanish  captains 
while  they  were  at  dinner  or  supper 
with  him,  he  would  carouse  three  or 
four  glasses  of  wine,  and  in  a  bravery 
take  the  glasses  between  his  teeth  and 
crash  them  in  pieces  and  swallow  them 
down,  so  that  often  times  the  blood  ran 
out  of  his  mouth  without  any  harm  at 
all  unto  him,  and  this  was  told  me  by 
divers  credible  persons  that  many  times 
stood  and  beheld  him."  This  story  has 
naturally  puzzled  people  much.  Kings- 
ley,  loyal  always  to  his  Elizabethan 
heroes  and  disliking  idle  tales  of  any 
man,  excuses  it  by  a  fit  of  indignation 
as  some  tale  of  Spanish  cruelty  or  op- 
pression. A  writer  in  Lardner's  Cyclo- 
poedia — one  would  be  sorry  to  think  he 
was  Southey — notes  it  as  merely  an 
act  of  drunken  bravery  common  to  the 
time.  There,  at  any  rate,  is  the  story 
in  the  pages  of  the  worthy  Dutchman, 
to  be  taken  or  left  as  readers  please. 
In  1588,  when  England  was  arming 
for  the  Spaniard,  Sir  Richard  had  an 
especial  commission  from  the  Queen  to 
guard  the  Devon  and  Cornwall  coasts, 
and  in  the  roll  of  the  musters  for  the 
latter  county,  returned  at  fifteen  hun- 
dred trained  men,  he  comes  first  with 
three  hundred  and  three  armed  with 
muskets  and  bows  and  arrows. 

^  The  name  was  spelt  in  all  manner  of  ways 
then,  as  the  custom  was.  Raleigh  spells  it 
Grinvile  ;  Hawkins  Greenfield  and  Grenfeild  ; 
Monson,  Oreenvile;  Bacon,  Greenvill, 


48 


Off  the  Azores. 


Then  came  this  great  fight  alid  Sir 
Richard's  death  in  his  fifty-second  year. 
Four  sons  and  five  daughters  survived 
him,  and  his  wife,  "  the  fair  St.  Leger." 
She  died  in  1623,  and  was  buried  in 
the  Grenvilles'  aisle  in  the  church  of 
Bideford  of  which  the  family  were 
patrons.  The  parish  register  records 
her  as  "  wife  to  that  famous  warrior 
Sir  Kichard  Grenvile,  knight,  also 
deceased,  being  in  his  lifetime  the 
Spaniards'  terror."  One  of  his  grand- 
sons was  that  Sir  Bevill  Grenville, 
whom  men  called  the  English  Bayard. 
He  died  as  bravely  as  his  grandsire, 
leading  his  pikemen  against  Waller's 
horse  at  Lansdowne.  But  Sir  Bevill' s 
younger  brother,  another  Sir  Richard, 
did  not  bear  so  good  a  name.  Like  all 
his  line  he  was  brave  enough,  but 
corrupt,  cruel,  and  mischievous.  If 
his  brother  was  the  Bayard,  he  might 
have  been  called  the  Boar  of  the  West. 

In  1590  Philip  was  busy  with  his 
new  Armada.  The  first  had  failed 
wofully,  it  was  true,  but  it  had  failed, 
so  the  Spaniards  plumed  themselves, 
by  no  inferiority  of  ships  or  men.  The 
winds  and  the  waves  had  destroyed  it, 
not  English  valour  or  seamanship.  The 
Pope  and  his  priests  would  no  doubt 
arrange  matters  better  with  Heaven 
next  time.  Still  it  behoved  him  on  his 
part  to  neglect  no  precautions  ;  and 
one  of  these  was  to  stop  the  plate-fleet 
for  that  year.  One,  and  an  unusually 
rich  one,  was  lying  at  Havannah  ready 
for  the  homeward  voyage,  but  the  risk 
of  losing  so  much  material  at  such  a 
time  was  too  great.  For  somehow  or 
other,  despite  his  high  words,  Philip 
could  not  altogether  blink  the  sad  fact 
that  when  English  and  Spanish  sailors 
met  on  the  high  seas,  it  was  not  as  a 
rule  the  former  who  got  the  worst  of 
it.  So  the  plate-fleet  was  ordered  to 
winter  at  Havannah,  and  even  not  to 
sail  next  year  till  much  later  than 
usual,  the  chances  of  bad  weather 
being  preferred  to  the  English  guns. 
Elizabeth  had  been  advised  of  all  this, 
and  accordingly  in  June,  1591,  a  bold 
move  was  made  to  spoil  Philip's  game. 
A     squadron      under     Lord    Thomas 


Howard,  which  had  been  cruising  all 
the  year  about  those  waters,  was 
ordered  to  the  Azores;  and  a  fresh 
one  under  Lord  Cumberland  was  sent 
to  the  Spanish  coasts,  in  case  the  prize 
should  slip  through  Howard's  hands. 
But  Philip  knew  what  was  going  on  as 
well  as  Elizabeth ;  and  in  August,  about 
the  time  when  the  Havannah  fleet 
might  be  looked  for  at  the  Azores,  he 
dispatched  a  part  of  his  Armada  down 
to  those  islands.  On  the  last  day  of 
the  month  the  two  fleets  came  in  sight 
of  each  other  off  Flores,  the  western- 
most island  of  the  group. 

Howard  had  six  men-of-war  with 
him  and  nine  or  ten  smaller  vessels, 
carrying  few  or  no  guns,  victuallers, 
as  they  were  called,  and  pinnaces.  His 
fighting  ships  were  the  Defiance,  carry- 
ing the  Admiral's  flag, the  Bonaventit/rey 
the  Lion  (in  which  George  Fenner  was 
sailing  once  again  for  his  old  battle- 
fjround),  the  Foresight,  the  Crane,  and 
the  Revenue,  fljing  Sir  Richard  Gren- 
ville's  flag  as  Vice-Admiral.  Of  these 
the  Foresight  and  Crane  were  of  small 
size  and  light  armament.  The  Bona- 
venture  was  of  six  hundred  tons,  an 
old  ship  but  a  good  one.  She  had  been 
with  Drake  in  the  West  Indies  and 
had  carried  his  flag  in  the  memorable 
raid  on  Cadiz  in  1587.  Though  she 
had  seen  now  thirty-one  years'  hard 
service,  the  sailors  vowed  there  was 
not  a  stronger  ship  in  the  world.  The 
Revenge,  of  five  hundred  tons,  was  built 
about  1579  under  Hawkins's  special 
supervision,  and  her  lines  were  thought 
so  highly  of  that,  after  the  great 
Armada  where  she  carried  Drake's 
flag,  she  had  been  selected  by  a  com- 
mittee consisting  of  Lord  Howard  of 
Effingham,  High  Admiral  of  the  Fleet, 
Drake,  Hawkins,  Wynter,  and  other 
notables,  as  the  model  for  four  new 
line-of-battle  ships.  But  she  was  an 
unlucky  vessel,  for  all  her  qualities. 
She  had  been  aground  several  times, 
and  once  had  sprung  so  bad  a  leak  off 
the  Spanish  coast  that  she  was  with 
difficulty  brought  home.  The  Defiance 
and  the  Lion  were  probably  about  the 
same  size.  The  Spaniards  counted  fifty- 


Off  the  Azores. 


49 


three  sail,  all  galleons  of  war ;  the 
largest  was  the  San  Philip^  of  fifteen 
hundred  tons,  carrying  eighty -two 
guns.  The  Admiral  was  Don  Alphonso 
Bassan,  brother  to  the  Marquess  of 
Santa  Cruce,  a  famous  grandee. 

Howard  had  warning  of  the  enemy's 
coming.  Captain  Middleton  in  a  swift 
cruiser  had  brought  the  news  from 
Cumberland's  squadron,  and  only  just 
in  time.  Half  the  crews  were  on  shore, 
and  barely  half  of  them  fit  for  service. 
In  the  Revenge  there  were  ninety  sick  ; 
in  the  Bonaventure  not  enough  in 
health  to  handle  her  main-sail.  The 
whole  fleet  indeed  was  in  a  bad  way, 
"grown  foul,"  says  Raleigh,  "un- 
roomaged,  and  scarcely  able  to  bear 
any  sail  for  want  of  ballast,  having 
been  six  months  at  the  sea  before." 
Howard  clearly  saw  that  on  this  one 
occasion  discretion  was  the  better  part 
of  valour.  He  gave  orders  for  all  to 
go  on  board  as  quickly  as  might  be, 
and  weigh  anchor.  About  this  part  of 
the  story  there  is  some  confusion.  It 
is  not  clear  whether  Sir  Richard  could 
not  or  would  not  obey  the  Admiral's 
signal.  Every  one  knows  the  famous 
words  in  which  he  commended  his  soul 
to  God  and  his  fame  to  posterity,  as  he 
lay  dying  on  th^  Spaniard's  deck. 
But  in  Linschoten's  version  of  the 
story  the  speech  is  said  to  end  thus : 
"But  the  others  of  my  company  have 
done  as  traitors  and  dogs,  for  which 
they  shall  be  reproached  all  their  lives, 
and  have  a  shameful  name  for  ever." 
This  conclusion  has  been  prudently 
omitted  from  all  the  English  ver- 
sions, and  Raleigh,  who  wrote  several 
years  before  Linschoten,  says  nothing 
of  it.  The  original  Dutch  story,  in 
which  these  words  are  said  to  occur,  I 
have  never  seen,  and  should  be  little 
the  wiser  if  I  had ;  but  in  the  Latin 
translation  published  three  years  later, 
in  1599,  at  the  Hague,  it  is  said  that 
Sir  Richard,  before  composing  himself 
to  die,  declared  that  he  had  been 
b«asely  and  cowardly  abandoned  by  his 
comrades.^  To  talk  of  men  like  Howard 

*  The   passage  runs  thus  :    **  Mira    animi 
coiistantia  tandem,  quod  lethale  vulnus  esset, 

No.  385. — VOL,  Lxv. 


and  Fenner  as  cowards  is  ridiculous. 
But  it  is  clear,  from  the  trouble  Raleigh 
takes  to  excuse  both  parties,  that  there 
was  some  disputing  afterwards,  when 
it  was  seen  what  this  one  ship  had 
done,  what  might  have  been  the  issue 
had  the  whole  squadron  given  battle. 
It  seems  indeed,  from  his  account,  that 
they  did  what  they  could  do  to  save 
their  comrade.  Thomas  Yavasour,  in 
the  Foresight,  especially  distinguished 
himself,  fighting  his  ship  for  two  hours 
as  near  the  Revenge  as  the  weather 
would  permit  him,  and  only  at  last 
sheering  off  when  he  saw  that  he  could 
not  save  Sir  Richard  and  would  have 
much  ado  to  save  himself.  And  the 
others  are  also  said  to  have  done  what 
wind  and  weather  and  their  own  con- 
dition would  let  them,  until  they  were 
parted  by  night.  Raleigh  was  Gren- 
ville's  particular  friend,  and  a  kinsman 
as  well,  so  he  is  certain  to  have  said 
all  he  could  on  his  side,  and  as  he 
allows  that  "  if  all  the  rest  had  entered^ 
all  had  been  lost,"  the  shade  of  Lord 
Thomas  may  fairly  be  suffered  to  rest 
in  peace.  Sir  Richard's  well-known 
temper  and  his  disappointment  at 
seeing  so  great  a  fight  fought  in  vain, 
may  no  less  fairly  excuse  his  hasty 
words  against  his  comrades — if  he  ever 
uttered  them. 

But  to  leave  this  part  of  the  story, 
which  is  not  the  best  part,  and  come 
to  the  certain  facts.  The  Revenge, 
having  to  get  her  ninety  sick  men  on 
board,  was  the  last  to  weigh  anchor, 
and  scarcely  had  she  done  so,  when 
the  squadron  of  Seville  came  up  on 
her  weather  bow  and  cut  her  off  from 
the  rest  of  her  comrades.  The  master 
advised  Sir  Richard  to  cut  his  main- 
sail and  go  about,  trusting  to  the 
speed  of  the  Revenge  which  was  notori- 
ous. But  this  the  Yice-Admiral  utterly 
refused  to  do,  vowing  that  he  would 
rather  die  then  and  there  than  dis- 
honour himself,  his  country,  and  her 

ad  mortem  sese  composuit,  tesiattis  primum 
ignavia  fcedissima  socioncm  derelichim  se,  ac 
proditum,  mori  fidelem  Reginpe,  ac  hactenus 
glorise,  plurimae  compotem,  summa  cum  animi 
sui  tranquillitate." 

E 


50 


Off  the  Azores. 


Majesty's  flag.  So  between  the  two 
great  Spanish  squadrons  the  little 
English  ship  held  her  course,  till  the 
huge  San  Philip  coming  up  to  wind- 
ward of  her,  took  the  wind  out  of  her 
sails  and  ran  aboard  her. 

Then  the  great  fight  began,  at  three 
o'clock  on  that  August  afternoon.  The 
San  Philip  soon  had  enough  of  it, 
"  utterly  misliking  her  first  entertain- 
ment," a  broadside  of  crossbar-shot 
from  the  lower  tier  of  the  Revenge, 
But  there  were  four  other  galleons  by 
this  time  at  work,  two  on  the  larboard 
side  and  two  on  the  starboard,  one  of 
them  "a  very  mighty  and  puissant 
ship."  The  Spaniards  were  all  fully 
manned,  some  of  them  carrying  as 
many  as  five  or  eight  hundred  soldiers 
besides  their  crews.  The  Revenge  had 
only  a  few  gentlemen- volunteers  over 
and  above  her  crew,  of  whom  ninety, 
as  I  have  said,  were  lying  sick  below  : 
"  In  ours  there  were  none  at  all  besides 
the  mariners  but  the  servants  of  the 
commanders,  and  some  few  voluntary 
gentlemen  only."  Many  times  the 
enemy  tried  to  board,  but  were  always 
beaten  ofi^,  into  the  sea  or  back  into 
their  own  ships.  All  that  afternoon,  and 
through  the  fair  summer  night  till  the 
sun  rose  again,  the  fight  raged.  One  by 
one  as  the  Spanish  galleons  fell  back 
from  their  terrible  little  foe,  others 
came  up  to  fill  their  places,  so  that 
she  had  never  less  than  two  alongside 
her  through  all  those  awful  hours,  and 
ere  the  morning  dawned  it  is  counted 
that  fifteen  several  attempts  had  been 
made  to  board.  But  so  rough  was  the 
handling  they  got  that  at  daybreak 
the  general  feeling  throughout  the 
Spanish  fleet  was  rather  in  favour 
of  a  compromise  than  any  further 
engagement. 

The  dawning  light  showed  no  com- 
fort. Not  a  friend  was  in  sight  but 
the  little  Pilgrim,  commanded  by  Jacob 
Whiddon,  who  had  hovered  all  night 
round  the  combatants,  and  in  the 
morning  bearing  up  for  the  Revenge, 
was  "  hunted  like  a  hare  amongst  many 
ravenous  hounds,  but  escaped."  On 
the  previous  afternoon  another  of  the 


victuallers,  the  George  Noble  of  Lon- 
don, had  made  her  way  to  the  Revenge, 
and  her  captain,  whose  name  one 
would  be  glad  to  know,  had  asked 
Sir  Richard  "  what  he  would  command 
him "  ;  but  the  hero  bade  him  shift 
for  himself  and  leave  him  to  his  own 
fate.  Two  of  the  Spanish  ships  had 
been  sunk,  and  the  rest  lay  in  a  ring 
round  the  Revenge,  waiting  for  the 
end,  but  daring  no  more  to  come  near 
her. 

As  the  wolves  in  winter  circle 
Round  the  leaguer  on  the  heath. 

The  end  was  not  far  off.  Forty  of 
the  Englishmen  had  been  killed  and 
Sir  Richard  himself  mortally  wounded  ; 
all  the  powder  was  done ;  the  pikes  all 
bent  or  broken  ;  the  masts  all  gone  by 
the  board,  the  rigging  and  bulwarks 
all  shot  away,  and  there  were  six  feet 
of  water  in  the  hold.  So  lay  the 
Revenge,  a  mere  hulk,  washed  from 
side  to  side  by  the  heaving  waves. 
Then  Sir  Richard  bid  the  master- 
gunner  to  sink  the  ship.  And  the 
man,  who  was  made  of  the  same  stufE 
as  his  captain,  would  have  done  so  had 
not  the  others  stayed  him.  They  had 
fought  for  their  country,  they  said, 
like  brave  men,  and  it  was  surely  best 
that  such  as  were  left  of  them  should 
live  to  fight  for  her  again.  The 
Spaniards  were  brave  men  too,  and 
would  treat  them  courteously.  In  the 
end  this  counsel  prevailed,  though  the 
valiant  gunner  would  have  put  an  end 
to  his  own  life  at  least  had  he  not 
been  forcibly  withheld  and  lashed  into 
his  cabin.  As  for  Sir  Richard  him- 
self he  was  past  disputing  any  more. 
He  had  been  twice  badly  shot,  through 
the  body  and  the  head,  and  was  sink- 
ing fast.  So  the  ReveTige  yielded,  and 
the  Spaniards  sent  their  boats  along- 
side her,  very  cautiously,  for  they 
knew  not  what  the  English  captain 
might  do  in  his  death-fit.  They  bore 
him  carefully  out  of  his  ship,  which  was 
streaming  with  blood  and  filled  with 
bodies  of  dead  and  wounded  men,  like 
a  slaughter-house  ;  and  they  took  the 
others  off,  promising  them  a  reason- 


Off  the  Azores, 


^1 


able  ransom,  and  in  the  meantime 
honourable  treatment.  The  Spanish 
Admiral,  like  a  true  and  valiant  gen- 
tleman, received  his  prisoner  with 
great  courtesy,  praising  him  for  his 
courage  and  for  the  wondrous  fight 
hfs  men  had  made  against  such  ter- 
rible odds.  And  all  things  were  done 
to  give  him  ease,  and,  if  possible,  to 
heal  him  of  his  grievous  wounds.  But 
no  fair  words  nor  surgery  could  save 
Sir  Richard.  He  died  on  the  second 
or  third  day  after  his  removal,  and  all 
the  Spanish  gentlemen  mourned  for 
him  as  though  he  had  been  of  their 
own  blood. 

The  victors  kept  their  faith.  All  the 
Englishmen  were  honom^ably  treated, 
and  sent  home  into  England  after  mo- 
derate ransom.  But  the  Revenge,  like 
Sir  Richard,  had  fought  her  last  fight. 
The  Spaniards  patched  her  up  as  well 
as  they  could,  and  put  a  crew  of  their 
own  on  board.  But  a  few  days  after 
the  fight  a  great  storm  arose,  and  the 
Revenge  went  down  off  St.  Michael 
with  two  hundred  Spaniards  on  board, 
and   fourteen    of    the    galleons   went 


down  with  her  to  give  her  honourable 
burial.  Several  more  were  lost  among 
the  other  islands,  and  of  the  great 
plate-fleet  itself,  "  the  cause  of  all  this 
woe,"  what  with  this  storm,  and  the 
English  cruisers,  among  whom  the 
brave  little  Pilgrim  figures  again,  less 
than  one- third  ever  came  safe  into 
Spain.  "Thus,"  wrote  Raleigh,  "it 
hath  pleased  God  to  fight  for  us ; " 
and  thus  did  Master  Gervase  Mark- 
ham  write  the  English  heroes  epitaph  : 

Rest  then,  dear  soul,  in  thine  all-resting 
peace. 

And  take   my  tears  for  trophies  to  thy 
tomb, 

Let  thy  lost  blood  thy  unlost  fame  increase, 

Make    kingly    ears    thy    praises*    second 
womb  ; 

That  when  all  tongues  to  all  reports  sur- 
cease, 

Yet  shall  thy  deeds  outlive  the  day  of 
doom. 
For  even  Angels  in  the  Heavens  shall 

sing 
Grinvile  unconqtiered  died,   still   con- 
quering. 

M.  M. 


K  2 


52 


THREE  PERSIAN  QUATRAINS. 

I. 

(From  Omm/r  Khayyam.) 

Sic   transit   gloria    mundi. 

Yon  fort  once  proudly  towered  into  the  blue; 
Kings  at  its  portals  rendered  homage  due. 
Now  from  its  ruins  sounds  the  dove*s  lone  coOy 
And  fondly  asks  who  built  it,  who,  who,  who  ? 

II. 
(From  Sadi's  Gulistan,     Book  iii.,  Story  27.) 

The  wise  I  liken  unto  coins  of  gold, 

Valued  in  all  the  earth ; 
But  fools  high-born  as  token  coins  I  hold, 

Of  merely  local  worth, 

III. 

(Author  not  known.) 

When  you  were  born,  a  helpless  child. 
You  only  cried  while  others  smiled. 
So  live,  that  when  you  come  to  die. 
You  then  may  smile  and  others  cry. 

T.  C.  Lewis. 


53 


MOZART'S    LIBRETTIST. 


Lorenzo  Da  Ponte  was  born  at 
Ceneda  in  1749,  and  has  left  volumi- 
nous memoirs  (printed  in  New  York 
in  1830),  garrulous  and  egotistical,  but 
amusing  enough.  His  only  claim  to 
fame,  and  that  but  a  poor  one,  is  hav- 
ing written  the  words  for  Mozart's 
immortal  Figaro  and  Don  Giovanni, 

Driven  from  his  father's  house  by  a 
young  stepmother.  Da  Ponte  entered 
the  seminary,  where  his  intelligence, 
poetic  talents,  and  personal  appearance 
attracted  the  notice  of  the  Archbishop, 
who  wished  him  to  become  a  priest. 
At  twenty-two  he  was  already  Pro- 
fessor of  Rhetoric  and  Literature  and  in 
great  request  for  composing  Latin  and 
Italian  verses  for  all  occasions.  The 
jealousy  of  the  older  masters  made  life 
intolerable  to  him,  and  he  left  Ceneda 
to  seek  his  fortune  at  Venice.  The 
descriptions  of  the  intrigues  and  mas- 
querades on  the  Piazza  San  Marco  are 
worthy  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  the 
handsome  young  poet  threw  himself 
headlong  into  every  kind  of  dissipation. 
A  sonnet  written  in  the  Venetian  dia- 
lect against  the  nobility,  which  became 
popular  among  the  gondoliers,  and  a 
supper  of  fried  ham  in  Lent,  roused 
the  ire  of  the  Council  of  Ten  and  of  the 
Inquisition,  and  Da  Ponte  fled  for  his 
life. 

He  arrived,  with  a  Horace,  a  Dante, 
and  a  Petrarch  for  his  worldly  posses- 
sions, at  Goritz,  and  was  hospitably  re- 
ceived by  a  young  and  pretty  German 
hostess.  At  supper  she  waited  on  him 
in  person,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  German 
and  Italian  dictionary  they  made 
known  their  mutual  admiration.  When 
supper  was  over  the  pretty  innkeeper 
called  one  of  her  maids  to  sing  a  well- 
known  German  song  which  begins,  "  I 
love  a  man  from  the  Italian  land," 
and  offered  him  her  heart  and  her  purse, 
which  he  refused.     After  a  series  of 


adventures,  during  which  he  supported 
himself  by  writing  odes  to  the  Empress 
of  Austria  and  various  great  people, 
he  found  himself  at  Vienna,  where 
Abbe  Casti,  known  for  his  facile  and 
licentious  writings,  was  in  high  favour 
with  Count  Rosemberg,  Director  of 
the  Imperial  Opera  House.  Emperor 
Joseph  seems  to  have  taken  a  likings 
to  the  quick-witted,  pleasant  -  man- 
nered, handsome  Da  Ponte,  who 
could  hold  his  own  against  the  Abb6, 
and  amused  Vienna  by  his  lampoons 
and  squibs.  Count  Rosemberg  in  vain 
tried  to  induce  his  imperial  master  to 
name  Casti  Caesarian  poet,  or,  as  we 
should  say,  poet-laureate.  This  post  had 
been  vacant  since  the  death  of  Metas- 
tasio,  who,  Da  Ponte  says,  died  of  grief 
because  the  Emperor,  finding  the  in- 
numerable pensions  granted  by  the  late 
Empress  Maria  Theresa  too  heavy  a 
burden  for  the  exchequer,  had  decreed 
their  abolition.  He  reserved  the  right 
to  continue  those  he  considered  proper, 
and  among  others  he  confirmed  Metas- 
tasio's,  but  the  poor  old  poet  only  lived 
to  enjoy  it  for  a  few^days.  Maria  Theresa 
must  have  scattered  money  broadcast, 
to  judge  by  Da  Ponte' s  story  of  the 
Bishop  of  Goritz,  who  was  much  es- 
teemed by  her.  The  father,  mother, 
brother,  sisters,  and  servants  of  the 
Bishop  had  all  received  pensions;  at 
last  he  complained  that  his  father 
would  be  obliged  to  sell  two  old  horses, 
"  faithful  beasts  that  had  worked  for 
thirty-three  years,"  because  he  could 
not  afford  to  feed  useless  animals. 
The  Empress  immediately  bestowed  a 
pension  of  three  hundred  florins  a 
year  "  to  the  faithful  horses  of  the 
Bishop's  father." 

In  Vienna,  at  the  house  of  Baron 
Vetzlar,  Da  Ponte  met  Mozart.  "  I 
can  never  remember  without  pride  and 
pleasure,"   he  writes,   **that  Europe, 


54 


Mozart's  Librettist, 


and  indeed  the  whole  world,  owe  in  a 
great  measure  to  my  perseverance  and 
firmness  the  exquisite  compositions  of 
so  admirable  a  genius/* 

Martini  at  that  time  was  the  idol 
of  Vienna,  and  his  opera,  II  Burhero  di 
Buon  Cuore,  with  words  by  Da  Ponte, 
had  been  most  successful.  In  spite  of 
the  cabals  of  Abbe  Casti,  Martini  asked 
for  another  libretto  which  Da  Ponte 
promised  to  write,  at  the  same  time 
offering  to  do  one  for  Mozart.  The 
latter  suggested  Le  Mariage  de  Figaro 
by  Beaumarchais. 

"  This,"  says  our  poet,  "  pleased  me  ; 
but  a  great  difficulty  stood  in  the  way. 
Only  a  short  while  before  the  Emperor 
had  forbidden  the  German  company  to 
act  this  comedy,  as  unfit  for  decent 
ears.     How  was  it  to  be  submitted  to 
him  as  a  subject  for  an  opera?     Baron 
Yetzlar  generously  offered  to  pay  me 
a  handsome  sum  for  the  words,  and  to 
arrange  for  the  opera  to  be  given  in 
London  or  in  France,  if  it  were  refused 
in    Vienna.       This    I    declined,    and 
begged  that    the     words    and    music 
should  be  composed  in  secret,  while  we 
waited  for  a  favourable  opportunity  to 
propose  it    to    the    directors   of    the 
theatre  or  to  the  Emperor.  This  1  cour- 
ageously undertook  to  manage.    Only 
Martini  knew  of  my  design,  and  out  of 
admiration  for  Mozart  he  consented  to 
wait  for  his  libretto  until  I  had  finished 
Figaro,     So  I  set  to  work,  and  as  fast 
as  I  wrote  the  words  Mozart  wrote  the 
music.     By  great  good  fortune  there 
was  a  lack  of  scores    at   the    Opera. 
Seizing  this  opportunity,  I  went,  with- 
out saying  a  word  to  any  one,  straight 
to    the    Emperor     and     offered    him 
Figaro.    *  Wliat !  *  he  exclaimed.    *  Do 
you  not  know  that  Mozart,  excelling 
in     instrumental    music,     has    never 
written  but  one  opera,  and  that  was 
not  remarkable?'      With  humility  I 
replied  that  but  for  the  clemency  of  his 
Majesty  I   should    not   have   written 
more  than  one  play  in  Vienna.    *  True,* 
he  said ;  *  but  I  have  forbidden  this 
very  comedy  to  be  acted  by  the  Ger- 
man players/     I  answered  *  Yes,  but 
having  composed  a  drama  for  music, 


it   is  no   longer  a   comedy.      I   have 
perforce    omitted    many    scenes    and 
shortened  others,  and  1  liave  omitted  or 
shortened  everything  that  could  mar 
the  decency  and  delicacy  of  an  enter- 
tainment destined  to  be  honoured  by 
the    presence    of    sovereign    majesty. 
The  music,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  is  of 
marvellous  beauty  ! '    *  Very  well,*  was 
the   gracious  reply ;   *  in  that  case  I 
trust  to   your  taste  about  the  music 
and  to  your  prudence  for  the  morality. 
Give  the  score  to  the  copyist.'     I  ran 
at    once    to    Mozart,    and    had     not 
finished   telling   him   the    good    news 
when  an  imperial  messenger  arrived, 
ordering  him   to   go   at   once   to   the 
palace  with   the   score.      He   obeyed, 
and  the  Emperor,  whose  taste  in  music, 
as  in  all  things  pertaining  to  art,  was 
exquisite,   expressed  the  greatest   ad- 
miration for  several  pieces.     This  did 
not    please    the   Viennese   composers, 
nor  did  it  please  Count   Rosemberg, 
who    disliked    that    kind   of    music; 
least  of   all  did  it  please  Casti,  who 
dared  no  longer   say  that  Da  Ponte 
could  not   write  poetry.      These  two 
good  friends  were  not  able  to  injure 
us   much,   but   they   did    what    they 
could.     A  certain  Bussane,  versed  in 
every   trade    save    that    of    honesty, 
who  had  charge  of  the  costumes  and 
scenery,  heard  there  was  to  be  a  ballet 
in   Figaro.      So   he   hastened   to  tell 
Count  Bosemberg,  and  I  was  sent  for. 
Frowning   severely,    the   Count  said : 

*  So  Mr.  Poet  has  inserted  a  ballet 
into  Figaro  ?  *     *  Yes,  your  Excellency.' 

*  Mr.  Poet  does  not  know  that  the 
Emperor  will  not  allow  ballets  at  his 
theatre?*  *No,  your  Excellency.* 
*Very  well,  Mr.  Poet;  then  I  tell 
you  so  now.'    *  Yes,  your  Excellency.* 

*  And  what  is  more,  you  must  strike 
it  out,  Mr.  Poet.*  This  Mr.  Poet  was 
said  in  a  way  that  meant  Mr.  Donkey, 
But  my  your  Excellency  had  much  the 
same  intonation.  *  Have  you  the 
libretto  with  you  ? '  *  Yes,  your  Ex- 
cellency.* *  This  is  what  one  does.' 
And  he  tore  out  two  pages  of  the 
manuscript  and  threw  them  into  the 
fire.     *You  see,  Mr.  Poet,  I  can  do 


Mozart's  Librettist. 


55 


everything.  Go  !  *  Mozart  was  in 
despair  when  I  told  him  what  had 
happened.  He  wanted  to  go  to  Count 
Rosemberg, — to  chastise  Bussane, — to 
appeal  to  Caesar, — to  take  back  the 
score.  I  begged  him  to  wait  a  few 
days  and  leave  everything  to  me. 
The  rehearsal  was  fixed  for  that  very 
day,  and  the  Emperor  had  promised 
to  attend  it.  He  came,  and  half  the 
Viennese  nobility  with  him.  Applause 
was  general  during  the  first  act,  until 
the  by-play  between  Alma  viva  and 
Susanna  during  the  ballet.  But  as 
his  Excellency  Do  Everything  had  torn 
out  these  pages,  the  actors  gesticulated 
while  the  orchestra  remained  mute. 
It  was  like  a  scene  for  marionettes. 
*  What  is  this  ? '  said  the  Emperor  to 
Abb6  Casti,  who  was  sitting  behind 
him.  *  Your  Majesty  must  ask  the  poet,' 
replied  the  Abbe,  with  a  malicious 
smile.  So  I  was  called,  and  instead  of 
speaking,  handed  my  manuscript,  into 
which  I  had  again  inserted  the  ballet, 
to  the  Emperor.  He  looked  at  it,  and 
inquired  why  the  dance  was  not  per- 
formed. By  my  continued  silence  the 
Emperor  understood  that  something 
was  wrong,  and  turned  to  the  Count 
for  an  explanation.  Rosemberg  stam- 
mered out  a  lame  excuse  that  there 
were  no  ballet-dancers  at  the  opera- 
house.  *  I  suppose  the  other  theatres 
can  furnish  them.  Let  Da  Ponte  have 
as  many  as  he  wants,'  ordered  the 
Sovereign.  In  half  an  hour  twenty- 
four  dancers  were  ready,  and  the  re- 
jected scene  was  given  at  the  end  of  the 
second  act  amid  general  applause." 

Some  time  after  Da  Ponte  wrote 
words  for  three  operas  simultaneously. 
The  Emperor  bet  one  hundred  sequins 
that  he  would  not  be  able  to  do  it,  and 
with  characteristic  bombast  he  replied  ; 
"  At  night  I  shall  write  for  Mozart, 
and  imagine  I  am  reading  the  Inferno 
of  Dante  ;  for  Martini  I  shall  reserve 
my  mornings  and  think  I  am  studying 
Petrarch ;  the  evenings  shall  be  dedi- 
cated to  Salieri,  when  Tasso  will  be 
my  prototype."  Da  Ponte  gives  a  long- 
winded  description  of  how  sadly  he 
was  missed  by  the  wits  and  fine  ladies 


of  Vienna  while  he  worked  for  twelve 
hours  a  day  with  a  bottle  of  Tokay  on 
his  right  hand,  a  large  inkstand  in 
front,  and  a  box  of  Seville  snuff  to  his 
left,  A  pretty  waiting-maid  brought  him 
sweet  biscuits  and  coffee  whenever  he 
rang,  and  in  sixty-three  days  the  libretti 
were  finished.  Martini's  L'Arbore  di 
Biani  was  represented  first,  and  well 
received,  JDon  Giovanni  was  ordered 
to  be  given  at  Prague  for  the  arrival 
of  the  Princess  of  Tuscany,  and  Da 
Ponte  went  there  to  put  it  on  the 
stage;  but  before  it  was  ready  he 
was  recalled  to  Vienna  because  Salieri' s 
opera  Assur  had  been  chosen  for  the 
gala  night  in  honour  of  the  marriage 
of  the  Archduke  Francis. 

From  Prague  Da  Ponte  received 
glowing  accounts  of  the  success  of 
Don  Giovanni,  "  Long  live  Da  Ponte  ! 
Long  live  Mozart !  All  managers  and 
all  lovers  of  music  must  bless  them. 
So  long  as  they  live  there  will  be  na 
want  of  operas," — wrote  a  friend  who 
evidently  knew  our  poet's  little  weak- 
ness. The  Emperor  ordered  that  the 
opera  should  be  given  in  Vienna. 
**  How  can  I  write  it  ? "  says  Da 
Ponte.  "  Don  Giovanni  was  a  failure  ! 
All,  save  Mozart,  thought  something 
was  wanting.  We  added  a  little, — 
we  changed  some  songs, — and  it  was- 
repeated.  Again  it  failed  !  Only  the 
Emperor  said  :  *  The  opera  is  divine ; 
perhaps  even  better  than  Figaro ;  but 
it  is  not  food  suited  to  the  teeth  of  my 
Viennese.'  When  I  told  this  to  Mozart, 
he  answered  with  a  quiet  smile, — *  Let 
us  give  them  time  to  chew  it.'  He 
was  right.  I  induced  the  Director  to 
give  Don  Giovanni  several  times  with 
ever-increasing  success ;  and  at  length 
the  Viennese  began  to  taste  its  beauty 
and  understand  that  it  is  one  of  the 
finest  works  ever  produced  for  the 
stage." 

Soon  after  the  Emperor  Joseph  died, 
Da  Ponte  fell  into  disgrace  with  his 
successor  Leopold,  and  left  Vienna  for 
Trieste.  There  he  married  an  English 
girl,  and  after  a  wandering  life  in 
France,  Saxony,  and  Holland,  went  to 
London,  where  he  became  stage-man- 


5G 


Mozart* s  Librettist. 


ager  and  poet  for  a  certain  William 
Taylor,  impresario  of  the  Italian  Opera. 
Manager,  actors,  and  poet  quarrelled 
and  intrigued  perpetually,  and  the 
latter,  being  induced  to  back  bills  for 
Mr.  Taylor,  was  imprisoned  and  ruined. 
He  then  set  up  a  book-shop  in  London, 
—  *•  in  order,"  as  he  says,  "  to  diffuse  in 
that  most  noble  city  the  treasures  of 
our  Italian  literature.  On  the  1st  of 
March,  1801,  I  had  nine  hundred 
volumes  of  admirable  books  bought 
for  little  at  sales  and  from  booksellers 
who  did  not  know  their  value.  I  soon 
made  not  less  than  four  hundred 
guineas,  and  bought  more  old  editions 
and  ordered  new  books  from  Italy 
which  aided  me  to  illumine  the  minds 
of  the  most  educated  and  erudite 
English.  Among  these  were  the  cele- 
brated Roscoe  and  Walker,  to  whom 
Italian  literature  owes  so  much." 

Poor  Lorenzo  Da  Ponte  had  no 
sooner  made  a  little  money  than 
Taylor's  creditors  came  down  upon 
him  with  other  bills,  and  he  was  again 
ruined.  He  consoled  himself  with 
highdovvn  sentiment,  and  embarked 
for  America,  where  the  parents  of  his 
wife  were  living.  There,  after  trying 
many  trades  in  various  cities,  he  at 
last  settled  down  in  New  York  and 
taught  Italian  to  young  ladies.  Fifty 
pages  of  the  Memoirs  are  filled  with 
letters  of  his  pupils,  and  his  own  cor- 
rections and  remarks  upon  their  in- 
telligence and  wit.  To  his  best 
scholars  he  gave  the  names  of  flowers 
and  wrote  verses  in  their  honour  ;  but 
he  complains  that  Hymen  robbed  his 
garden  of  its  finest  ornaments,  and 
once  more  he  fell  back  on  the  book- 
trade,  opening  a  small  library.  This, 
he  remarks,  was  fortunately  placed 
next  door  to  a  shop  where  sweets  and 
cakes  were  sold,  so  that  at  least  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  fine  equipages 
standing  in  the  street  outside  his  door. 

His  vanity,  which  was  however 
mixed  with  very  real  patriotism,  re- 
ceived great  satisfaction  by  the  arrival 
in  New  York  of  Garcia  and  his  incom- 
parable   daughter  Malibran    with    an 


Italian  company.  Da  Ponte  says  they 
opened  the  eyes  of  the  Americans  to 
the  beauties  of  Italian  music  by  giving 
Rosvsini's  Barbiere  di  Seviglia,  and  he 
never  rested  until  he  had  persuaded 
Garcia  to  put  J9ouG'toi7anwi  on  the  stage. 
It  was  very  successful ;  words,  music, 
and  singers,  particularly  the  brilliant, 
pretty,  and  amiable  Zerlina,  were 
admired  and  praised,  and  the  city  was 
divided  in  two  camps,  one  for  Rossini, 
the  other  for  Mozart,  greatly  to  the 
advantage  of  the  manager.  Da  Ponte 
was  allowed  to  sell  an  English  trans- 
lation of  his  libretto  in  the  theatre  for 
the  use  of  the  public  who  did  not  know 
Italian.  "  I  sold  a  prodigious  numi- 
ber,"  he  says  with  his  usual  exaggera- 
tion. "Also  i)y  good  luck  I  put  some 
copies  in  a  lottery-ticket  shop,  and  the 
man  in  a  few  hours  sent  to  ask  me 
for  more,  giving  me  sixteen  dollars  for 
those  he  had  sold.  As  I  took  themi 
my  eyes  fell  on  a  notice, — To-morrow ^ 
the  lottery  will  be  drawn,  sixteen  doUa/rs 
a  ticket.  My  good  star  led  me  to 
leave  the  money  with  him  in  exchange 
for  a  ticket,  and  next  morning  I  was 
awoke  by  the  shopman  who  announced 
that  I  had  won  five  hundred  dollars  ! 
Blessing  Mozart,  Don  Giovanni,  and 
the  lottery,  I  at  once  wrote  to  Italy 
for  more  books  to  increase  my  stock, 
out  of  which  I  chose  a  selection  to 
present  to  the  University  where  I 
taught  Italian  literature  to  a  few 
members." 

On  his  seventy-ninth  birthday  Lor- 
enzo Da  Ponte  made  a  magniloquent 
speech  to  his  pupils  which  fills  twenty- 
two  closely  printed  pages.  "  Every  one 
applauded,"  he  records,  but  pathetically 
adds,  *'  my  triumph  ended  in  fine 
words.  Not  a  subscription  to  my  pro- 
posed course  of  lectures  !  Not  a 
single  new  pupil  !  " 

The  year  of  Da  Route's  death  is 
apparently  unknown.  He  printed  the 
last  volume  of  his  Memoirs  when  he 
was  ninety-seven,  ending  with  a  quota- 
tion from  Petrarch, "  I  know  my  faults, 
and  I  deplore  them." 

Janet  Ross. 


07 


A    CUEIOUS    DISCOVERY. 


Professor  Fleg's  methods  with  the 
golf-club  were  remarkable.  He  was 
in  every  way  a  remarkable  man,  and 
in  every  department  of  his  life  a 
methodical  man.  If  he  ever  erred 
it  was,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
by  regarding  all  things  as  capable 
of  being  brought  into  the  do- 
main of  exact  science ;  for  it  was  in 
this  attitude  that  he  approached  the 
game  of  golf,  which  is  scarcely  sus- 
ceptible of  such  treatment. 

The  occasion  has  now  become 
historical  on  which  he  sought  the 
counsel  of  the  wizard — the  great  medi- 
cine man — of  golf,  in  the  following 
terms  : — "  I  like,  my  dear  sir,  to  do 
everything  methodically.  All  through 
my  Life  I  have  approached  things  in 
that  way,  and  I  have  not  yet  been 
completely  beaten,  if  I  may  say  so,  by 
anything.  Now  I  am  taking  up  the 
game  of  golf  club  by  club — each  club 
in  turn.  Hitherto  I  have  devoted  my 
attention  solely  to  the  driver.  I  now 
propose  to  make  myself  thorough 
master  of  the  iron.  Would  you  there- 
fore have  the  kindness  to  show  me,  my 
dear  sir,  exactly  in  what  manner  you 
hold  your  hands  while  playing  an  iron 
stroke?" 

Such  are  the  methods  of  a  conquer- 
ing intellect ;  but  the  club-by-club 
system  did  not  exhaust  the  peculiari- 
ties of  Professor  Fleg's  fashion  of 
mastering  the  game  of  golf.  For  he 
put  himself  into  what  he  conceived  to 
be  the  position  indicated  by  the  best 
authorities  and  illustrated  by  diagrams 
in  many  highly  scientific  treatises  on 
the  game,  and  had  in  attendance  the 
Pebblecombe  carpenter  who  then  and 
there  constructed  around  the  Pro- 
fessor's feet  a  wooden  framework. 
This  framework  the  Professor's  caddie 
(a  long-suffering  and  much-to-be- 
pitied  person)  carried  round  with  the 


Professor  whenever  that  great  man 
engaged  in  the  game  of  golf,  and 
planted  it  upon  the  teeing  ground,  so 
that  if,  as  sometimes  occurred,  the 
Professor  topped  the  ball  or  otherwise 
misconducted  himself  with  regard  to 
it,  he  could  at  least  be  sure  of  erring 
on  the  most  approved  methods. 

Now  Colonel  Burscough  was  not  a 
man  of  science,  and  greatly  preferred 
hitting  the  ball  in  a  style  which  the 
most  charitable  critic  could  not  call 
orthodox  to  missing  it  in  the  correct 
fashion  beloved  by  Mr.  Fleg.  "  Brute 
force,  my  dear  sir, — no  science,"  was 
Mr.  Fleg's  whispered  soliloquy  (for 
even  in  soliloquy  his  speech  was 
studiously  courteous)  whenever  the 
Colonel  in  his  attitude  of  Philistine 
drove  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's highly  cultured  power.  And 
this  frequently  happened,  for  the 
Colonel's  physique  was  better  adapt- 
ed than  that  of  Mr.  Fleg  to  the  complex 
purposes  of  the  noble  game.  Never- 
theless Mr.  Fleg's  scientific  persever- 
ance was  rewarded  by  a  steady  though 
gradual  improvement  such  as  did  not 
attend  Colonel  Burscough's  more  rough 
and  ready  methods.  Therefore  in  the 
many  matches  that  they  had  played 
together,  though  Colonel  Burscough 
had  always  hitherto  had  the  better  of 
it,  yet  his  advantage  grew  less  with 
every  match,  until  there  were  critics  to 
prophesy  (under  their  breath,  be  it 
said,  and  far,  very  far,  behind  the 
Colonel's  back)  that  the  day  would 
eventually  come  when  science  would 
make  its  power  felt  and  the  Man  of 
Learning  come  in  a  hole  ahead  of  the 
Man  of  War. 

In  prospect  of  that  day  all  Pebble- 
combe held  its  breath  in  an  awful 
silence,  for  it  was  shrewdly  thought 
that  on  such  a  day  as  that  it  would 
be  evil  for  any  who  came  within  reach 


58 


A  Curioiis  Discovery. 


of  the  Colonel's  wrath.  For  though 
the  Colonel's  methods  with  the  golf 
club  differed  absolutely  from  those 
of  Mr.  Fleg,  they  were  not  one  whit 
less  remarkable.  The  game  of  golf  is 
one  which,  it  is  well  known,  demands 
peculiar  equanimity  of  temper  and  the 
long-suffering  patience  which  is  so 
eminently  characteristic  of  the  Scot. 
Kow  excellent  man  as  Colonel  Burs- 
cough  was,  equanimity  of  temper  was 
not  one  of  his  natural  gifts.  A  game 
of  golf  with  the  Colonel  was  therefore  a 
mixed  form  of  pleasure — a  fearful  joy. 
A  measure  of  amusement  was  assured, 
but  it  had  need  to  be  amusement  care- 
fully disguised,  for  golf  clubs  are 
formidable  weapons  in  the  hands  of  an 
angry  man.  When  things  were  going 
well  all  was  sweetness  and  light ;  but 
golf  links  are  treacherous  places  with 
dire  pitfalls,  named  bunkers,  into 
which  the  ball  sidles  like  an  ant 
into  the  lair  of  the  ant-lion.  In 
the  first  bunker  Colonel  Burscough 
was  as  good  as  gold ;  in  the  second 
he  began  to  talk  in  Hindostani ; 
and  in  the  third  he  sometimes  grew  a 
little  angr}'.  Then  his  caddie,  who 
knew  him  well,  would  hand  the  Colonel 
his  niblick,  and  place  in  a  convenient 
corner  of  the  bunker  an  old  umbrella, 
which  he  always  carried  with  him  to 
perform  the  office  of  a  scapegoat.  For 
if  the  Colonel  failed  to  extricate  his 
ball  from  the  bunker  on  the  first 
attempt  his  mood  grew  dangerous. 
The  niblick  strokes  fell  faster  until 
the  ball  flew  from  the  bunker,  and  the 
Colonel  being  now  very  angry  indeed 
would  look  around  him  for  some  object 
upon  which  his  wrath  could  spend 
itself.  Whereon  he  would  see  the 
umbrella,  to  which,  as  having  "  caught 
his  eye,"  he  would  at  once  attribute 
his  calamities,  and  summarily  execute 
it  at  the  edge  of  the  niblick.  The 
caddie,  having  kept  himself  in  the  back- 
ground until  the  extreme  fury  of  the 
Colonel's  wrath  had  spent  itself,  would 
come  up  with  discreet  humility  to  re- 
ceive the  tail  end  only  of  the  storm, 
and  to  retrieve  the  umbrella  which  had 
been  the  vicarious  sufferer  in  his  stead. 


The  occasions  on  which  the  Colonel 
had  sworn  once  and  for  ever  to  abandon 
the  game  of  golf  are  almost  beyond 
counting.  He  would  wave  his  hand 
with  tragic  pathos  towards  the  links  of 
Pebblecombe  and  declare  with  sad 
solemnity — "This  place  has  seen  me 
for  the  last  time ; "  and  in  this  black 
mood  he  would  remain  till  dinner. 
With  the  soup,  however,  life  began  to 
wear  a  brighter  aspect,  with  the  joint 
he  began  to  repent  him  of  his  determin- 
ation, and  with  the  dessert  he  was 
ready  to  play  any  man  in  the  world, 
on  any  terms  that  were  at  all  reason- 
able, on  the  very  next  day. 

But  besides  these  numerous  occasions 
on  which  he  had  set  no  outward  and 
visible  seal  to  his  immutable  resolve, 
there  were  other  greater  ones  on  which 
he  had  confirmed  himself  therein  by  a 
solemn  burning  of  his  ships — his  entire 
set  of  golf  clubs.  Twice  he  had  built 
a  small  bonfire  on  the  edge  of  the 
links  and  then  and  there  made  a  solemn 
holocaust  of  his  clubs,  his  balls,  his 
red  coat  and  all  his  golfing  parapher- 
nalia. Many  times  also  he  had  broken 
all  his  clubs  over  his  knee,  that  he 
might  never  be  tempted  again  to  play 
the  game  which  cost  him  so  much 
mental  anguish  ;  but  always,  on  the 
morrow  morning  he  had  appeared  at 
the  club-maker's  with  an  order  for  a 
new  set. 

So  that  now  these  two  methods  of 
treatment  were  familiar  to  Pebble- 
combe —  the  Ordeal  by  Dichotomy, 
(or  division  in  two)  as  Mr.  Fleg 
humorously  named  the  club-breaking 
plan,  and  the  Ordeal  by  Fire,  which 
was  the  Professorial  name  for  the 
holocaust — for  it  was  the  Colonel's 
constant  contention  that  his  dubs 
were  possessed  by  some  malign  witch- 
craft so  that  they  would  not  hit  the 
ball.  There  remained  yet  another 
in  the  Colonel's  repertory — namely, 
the  Ordeal  by  Water, — and  this  was 
put  into  execution  on  the  day  on  which 
the  Colonel  was  first  beaten  in  a  match 
with  Mr.  Fleg.  For  the  day  which 
all  Pebblecombe  expected  in  fear  and 
trembling  came  at  last.     The  methods 


A  Curious  Discovery. 


59 


of  science  proved  triumphant,  and 
Mr.  Fleg,  with  a  proud  flush  on  his 
brow,  and  not  without  a  tremor  at  his 
heart,  walked  into  the  Golf  Club 
wie  up  against  the  Colonel  at  the 
eighteenth  hole,  having  added  insult 
to  injury  by  laying  an  iniquitous 
stymie  at  the  very  end  when  the 
Colonel  was  lying  dead  at  the  hole 
and  certain  of  a  half. 

There  is  no  measure  in  the  good 
gifts  of  Providence.  To  many  it  would 
have  seemed  that  the  blessedness  of 
having  at  length  attained  the  mastery 
over  one  who  had  so  often  beaten  him 
would  be  enough  to  fill  the  cup  of 
happiness  for  any  ordinary  professor 
of  anatomy  to  the  brim.  But  Mr. 
Fleg  was  no  ordinary  professor,  and 
he  was  dealt  with  in  no  ordinary 
way.  About  a  twelvemonth  after  this 
first  and  epoch-making  victory,  he 
began  to  make  some  very  singular  and 
interesting  discoveries. 

Now,  there  is  on  the  beach  at 
Pebblecombe  a  stretch  of  bluish  grey 
mud,  of  no  very  great  extent.  It  is 
very  far  out  upon  the  sand — so  far 
that  only  at  the  lowest  tides  is  it  un- 
covered. It  happened  that  on  a  Sun- 
day Mr.  Fleg  was  once  walking  in  a 
pensive,  Sabbatical  mood  along  the 
sands  by  the  sea.  The  tide  was  un- 
usually far  out,  and  this  mud  was  un- 
covered. Mr.  Fleg  prodded  the  mud 
thoughtfully  with  his  stick,  and  sud- 
denly began  to  consider  it  with  greater 
interest.  It  contained  woody  fibres 
in  ^  fair  state  of  preservation — the 
fibre  in  many  instances  of  quite  large 
tree  trunks. 

Now  there  are  people  to  whom  this 
fibre  would  have  said  nothing,  unless 
possibly  decayed  cabbage,  or  something 
unpleasantly  suggestive  of  that  kind. 
But  it  was  crammed  full  of  meaning 
to  such  a  mind  as  Mr.  Fleg^s.  It 
said  a  avhiiierged  forest — and  a  sub- 
merged forest  included  remains  of  the 
denizens  of  that  forest,  of  who  could 
say  what  interest  and  antiquity  !  For 
a  moment  Mr.  Fleg^s  imagination  peo- 
pled its  once  mighty  shade  with  quite 
impossible      denizens  —  pterodactyls, 


icthyosauri,  megatheriums.  Then  his 
archseological  sense  smiled  at  the  an- 
achronisms into  which  his  scientific 
fervour  had  launched  him,  and  he 
corrected  himself  with  softly-spoken 
soliloquy — **'  Cave-bear,  my  dear  sir, 
cave-man,  at  the  earliest  ;  more  prob- 
ably old  British  ox  and  Irish  elk  ; 
almost  certainly  modern  fauna." 

Then  his  anatomical  imagination 
saw  himself  constructing  out  of  a 
humerus  or  tibia  mighty  ruminants 
of  primeval  days.  Mr.  Fleg  went 
home  that  Sabbath  evening  in  a 
state  which  in  any  other  man  the 
vulgar  might  have  ascribed  to  the 
effects  of  alcohol.  To  say  he  was  in 
a  fever  of  wild  excitement  is  to  give 
not  the  faintest  *  suggestion  of  his 
mental  condition.  To  say  that  he  was 
covered  from  head  to  foot  in  blue  mud 
is  to  express  but  feebly  his  outward 
aspect ;  for  never  had  Mr.  Fleg  so 
bitter  reason  to  bewail  his  short- 
sightedness, which,  fortified  with  double 
spectacles  as  he  was,  compelled  him  to 
go  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  grovelling 
almost  like  a  serpent,  in  order  to  make 
a  close  enough  examination  to  reveal 
the  treasures  of  which  he  was  in  search. 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  he  returned  in 
a  state  of  general  disorder  which  was 
a  pain  to  the  faithful  whom  he  met  on 
their  way  to  evening  church,  but  with 
a  scientific  joy  without  bounds  in  his 
heart,  and  a  small  piece  of  the  decayed 
horn  of  a  deer  in  his  pocket.  Nor 
would  he  ever  have  ceased  from  his 
search  until  the  shades  of  night  had 
come  upon  him,  had  not  the  jealous  sea 
come  lapping  up  to  him  and  driven 
him  back  step  by  step  over  the  mud 
until  its  nearest  limit  was  swallowed 
by  the  envious  waves^  Then  Mr.  Fleg 
went  slowly  home  with  the  one  treasure- 
trove  in  his  pocket,  and  elsewhere,  im- 
partially upon  him,  the  blue  mud. 

Now  after  this  auspicious  beginning 
Mr.  Fleg  bought  a  nautical  calendar 
which  gave  information  of  the  beha- 
viour of  the  tides ;  and  whenever  the 
sea  was  sufficiently  far  out  to  discover 
even  a  portion, — and  for  a  few  minutes 
only, — of  the   precious  blue  mud,  he 


60 


A  Curious  Discovery, 


would  neglect  the  royal  and  ancient 
game  of  golf  itself  to  go  down  with  a 
coadjutor,  in  whom  he  had  inspired  a 
small  share  of  his  own  enthusiasm, 
and  dig  and  delve  in  this  dirty  clay. 

And  to  tell  truth  he  made  several  in- 
teresting discoveries  in  the  shape  of  bits 
of  bone  and  horn  and  flint  arrow-heads 
and  a  portion  of  a  human  skull. 
Then  he  would  sit  hours  into  the  night 
poring  over  his  bits  of  bone,  examining 
them  through  a  microscope,  comparing 
them  with  the  descriptions  and  pictures 
in  certain  very  large  and  heavy 
books,  containing  fearful  representa- 
tions of  huge  skeletons  of  animals 
such  as  no  living  man  has  been  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  meet.  Then  on  a  vast 
sheet  of  paper  he  would  begin,  with 
pencil  and  scale  and  compasses,  to  map 
out  a  huge  skeleton  of  his  own  devising 
— leaving  only  a  little  gap,  generally 
somewhere  down  upon  the  shin-bone, 
into  which,  when  all  the  rest  was 
finished,  he  would  fit  the  little  bit  of 
brown  bone  which  was  the  basis  of 
the  whole  mighty  superstructure,  and 
would  say  proudly,  "  Such,  my  dear 
sir,  was  the  creature  who  roamed  in 
the  primeval  forest  of  which  we  see 
here  to-day  the  few  submerged  and 
wonderfully  preserved  remains." 

Sometimes  it  would  be  only  a  tooth 
that  would  supply  him  with,  the  data 
for  the  construction  of  a  whole  mighty 
skeleton — so  great,  so  inconceivable  to 
lesser  minds,  are  the  achievements  of 
science  and  the  knowledge  of  men  so 
richly  endowed  as  Professor  Fleg. 

But  even  as  it  was  in  the  days  of 
old  when  that  hero  of  Henrxfs  First 
Latin  Book,  Balbus,  feasted  the  town 
at  twenty  sesterces  a  head  and  there 
were  still  found  some,  as  historians 
tell  us,  who  laughed — so  too  now,  in 
in  Pebblecombe,  there  were  found  per- 
sons so  unappreciative  of  the  great 
discoveries  of  science  as  to  scoff  while 
Mr.  Fleg  drew  his  majestic  skeletons. 

Chief,  perchance,  among  the  scoffers 
was  Colonel  Burscough,  as  kind-hearted 
a  volcanic-tempered  man  as  ever  lived, 
yet  a  British  Philistine  to  the  very 
backbone  of  him. 


The  Colonel  would  stand  before  the 
fire  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  in 
Professor  Fleg^s  study,  examining  with 
head  thrown  back  the  Professor's  latest 
masterpiece  in  constructive  anatomy. 
So  he  would  stand  for  awhile  in  silence 
— then  take  the  cheroot  from  his  lips 
to  say  with  all  the  air  of  eulogy — 
"Jammed  extraordinary  imagination 
you  must  have,  Fleg — eh  ? " 

*'  Imagination !  my  dear  sir,"  Mr. 
Fleg  would  reply,  permitting  the 
slightest  note  expressive  of  the  shock 
which  the  word  bore  with  it  to  modify 
the  habitual  courtesy  of  his  address. 
**  Imagination !  Pardon  me,  my  dear 
sir,  if  I  venture,  with  all  deference, 
to  take  exception  to  the  term  you  are 
good  enough  to  employ  with  reference 
to  that  drawing.  I  assure  you  there 
is  no  imagination  used  or  needed  in 
the  construction  of  such  a  skeleton  on 
such  convincing  evidence  as  the  splen- 
did molar  which  you  see  restored  to  its 
appropriate  jaw.  It  is,  my  dear  sir,  as 
capable  of  scientific  demonstration  as 
any  one  of  Euclid's  theorems.     Let  me 

refer  you "      Here  the  Professor 

began  turning  over  the  leaves  of  one 
of  his  ponderous  volumes,  with  a  run- 
ning fire  of  extracts  and  commentary, 
while  Colonel  Burscough  took  a  seat  in 
the  armchair  and  began  wondering 
how  he  had  lost  his  last  golf  match. 

When  Professor  Fleg  had  triumph- 
antly vindicated  himself,  the  Colonel 
would  rise  from  the  chair,  examine  the 
molar  as  if  he  were  comparing  it  with 
the  essence  of  all  the  scientific  reading 
to  which  he  had  not  listened,  and  say, 
"  Yes,  Fleg — you  are  right,  of  course. 
Jammed  like  an  old  sheep's  tooth 
though,  after  all — eh?" 

Mr.  Fleg  courteously  admitted  that 
there  was  some  superficial  resemblance, 
and  began  to  talk  to  the  Colonel — as 
to  one  professionally  interested  in 
small  artillery — about  the  flint  arrow- 
heads. 

The  more  important  of  his  dis- 
coveries— if  one  may  speak  so  of  a 
matter  in  which  every  discovery  was 
of  great  import  —  Mr.  Fleg  com- 
municated   from   time   to  time  to   a 


A   Curious  Discovery, 


61 


certain  learned  journal  which  no  one 
in  Pebblecombe,  except  himself,  was 
able  to  read  with  any  intelligent 
appreciation.  Hitherto,  however,  Mr. 
Fleg  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
ma  lie  no  discovery  which  ran  counter 
to  the  deductions  of  other  scientists. 
With  the  flint  arrow-heads  he  found 
the  skull  of  the  cave-man,  the  bones 
of  the  cave-bear,  the  horns  of  the 
great  Irish  elk,  and  the  remains  of 
other  creatures,  all  of  whom,  as  is 
well  known,  lived  together  in  love 
an<l  unity. 

Then,  unheralded  by  any  miraculous 
premonition  or  unusual  circumstance, 
the  sun  dawned — quite  in  its  ordinary 
manner — upon  a  day  which  was  to  be 
credited  with  a  discovery  at  once  epoch- 
making  and  epoch  -  breaking — a  dis- 
covery perhaps  the  most  portentous 
of  any  that  had  been  known  since 
men  began  to  read  the  world's  history 
that  is  written  in  its  stones  and  clay. 
Among  the  mass  of  decaying  vege- 
table fibre  and  blue  mud — of  a  con- 
sistency somewhat  thicker  than  chewed 
tobacco  —  among  the  relics  of  the 
cave-man,  the  cave-bear,  and  the  elk, 
Mr.  Fleg  came  upon  something  that 
beyond  question  was  a  lump  of  iron  ! 

Possibly  every  reader  may  not  at 
once  appreciate  the  tremendous,  the 
appalling  significance  of  .  this  dis- 
covery. But  remember  the  circum- 
stances. Remember  that  this  lump 
of  metal,  more  than  a  pound  in 
weight,  was  found  among  the  flint 
arrow-heads,  among  the  remains  of 
creatures  the  history  of  whose  life  was 
part  of  the  story  of  the  world  when  it 
was  very  young — when,  in  fact,  it  was 
in  its  stone  age.  So  at  least  it  had 
ever  been  supposed.  Science  had 
given  its  united  voice  in  favour  of 
the  opinion  that  the  cave-man  and 
these  animals  who  were  found  to  be 
of  his  time,  had  existed  in  the  very 
infancy  of  the  age  of  stone — that  his 
weapons  were  at  best  of  flint,  and 
those  not  of  a  high  finish.  Science 
had  asked  sympathy  for  the  cave- 
man in  his  apparently  unequal  fight 
with   the  great  denizens  of  the  forest 


in  which  he  lived.  But  now — what 
did  this  discovery  say?  No  less  a 
thing  than  this  —  that  Science  had 
been  mistaken  in  the  matter  from 
first  to  last — that  all  previous  theories 
must  be  cast -to  the  wind  (for  one 
negative  condemns  an  hypothesis,  no 
matter  by  how  many  affirmatives  it 
be  supported) — that  the  comparatively 
sophisticated  age  of  iron  must  be  put 
back  perhaps  thousands  of  years  in 
the  world^s  story — must  be  put  away 
back  into  the  fancier]  simplicity  of 
the  age  of  stone.  With  this  iron 
weapon  (for  doubtless  it  was  in  the 
manufacture  of  weapons  of  offence, 
that  Tubal  Cain,  in  the  early  struggle 
for  existence,  first  exercised  his  art) — 
with  this  fairly  adequate  iron  weapon 
the  cave-man,  who  had  so  long  and  so 
nefariously  usurped  our  sympathy, 
might  have  felled  to  the  earth  perhaps 
no  less  mighty  a  quarry  than  the 
Great  Irish  Elk  itself  I 

In  such  manner  did  Mr.  Fleg  ex- 
pound his  theme  to  his  admiring 
listeners  while  he  held  in  a  hand  that 
trembled  with  infinitely  more  sense  of 
the  preciousness  of  its  burden  than 
if  it  had  borne  a  nugget  of  like  size, 
the  miraculous  iron  weapon  that  he 
had  delved  from  the  blue  mud.  True, 
the  exact  nature  and  outline  of  the 
weapon  were  as  yet  somewhat  shrouded 
in  mystery,  and  in  what  Mr.  Fleg  re- 
ferred to  as  *'  ferric  oxide,  my  dear  sir, 
or  rust,"  but  it  was  abundantly  evident 
from  its  mass  and  rough  shape,  that  it 
had  been  intended  for  a  hitting  weapon 
of  some  kind. 

Next  day,  by  special  messenger, 
Mr.  Fleg  sent  this  wonderful  relic  to 
a  shop  in  London  with  which  he  had 
had  frequent  dealings,  and  where  he 
could  trust  the  care  and  knowledge  of 
the  workmen,  with  orders  that  the 
ferric  oxide  should  be  removed  with 
such  skill  and  science  as  these  special- 
ists had  at  their  command.  Mean- 
while he  wrote  off  to  all  the  scientific 
and  leading  papers  in  the  country, 
giving  an  account  of  the  discovery, 
with  photographs  of  the  weapon  in 
its  rough  state  (encrusted  with  mud) 


02 


A  Curious  Discovo^y. 


and  minute  descriptions  of  the  nature 
of  the  clay  and  other  relics  in  whose 
company  it  had  been  found. 

A  perfect  storm  of  correspondence 
followed  both  in  the  public  prints  and 
in  the  shape  of  private  communica- 
tions to  the  Professor — so  that  he 
found  himself  obliged  to  temporarily 
engage  a  special  clerk,  to  answer  at 
his  dictation  the  mass  of  his  corre- 
spondents. 

Meanwhile  all  Pebblecombe,  and 
Mr.  Fleg  particularly,  held  its  breath 
in  expectation  of  the  return,  cleansed 
of  its  swathing  of  "  ferric  oxide,  my 
dear  sir,  or  rust,'*  of  the  weapon  which 
had  dealt  such  a  blow  to  all  the  previous 
hypotheses  of  Science. 

Mr.  Fleg  was  playing  golf  when  he 
received  a  telegram  informing  him 
that  the  relic,  restored  so  far  as  might 
be  to  its  first  form,  was  that  day  being 
despatched  again  by  special  messenger 
from  London — to  speak  exactly,  Mr. 
Fleg  was  in  a  bunker.  In  an  instant 
all  the  familiar  horrors  of  that  situa- 
tion were  dissipated.  He  gave  up  the 
hole  to  Colonel  Burscough,  with  whom 
he  was  playing,  and  felt  scarcely  a 
pang  of  regret.  He  neglected  his 
methodical  grasp  of  the  driver,  he 
forgot  about  the  wooden  foot-frame- 
work, which  lay  idle  in  his  caddie's 
hand,  while  Colonel  Burscough  with 
immense  joy  won  from  him  hole  after 
hole.  At  the  end  of  the  round  he  paid 
to  the  Colonel  their  statutory  wager 
of  half-a-crown  without  his  usual 
harmless  necessary  joke,  "  Look  upon 
it,  my  dear  sir,  I  would  beg  you,  in 
the  light  simply  of  a  loan,"  and  hurried 
the  Colonel  greatly  in  his  preparations 
for  leaving  the  Golf  Club  and  walking 
back  to  Pebblecombe. 

On  the  walk  Mr.  Fleg  was  silent 
and  abstracted.  At  the  door  of  his 
house  he  was  trembling  with  an  over- 
powering nervousness.  "  My  friend," 
he  said  to  the  Colonel,  as  the  latter 
was  about  to  leave  him  (it  was  the 
preface  to  some  very  momentous  state- 
ment when  Mr.  Fleg  abandoned  his 
usual  style  of  address,  as  "my  dear 
sir,"  for  the  yet  more  impressive  cordi- 


ality of  "  my  friend  "),  "  My  friend,  I 
would  beg  of  you  a  favour.  I  would 
beg  of  you  to  come  in  with  me  and  be 
present  with  me  on  this  which  is 
immensely  the  greatest  moment  of  my 
life.  There  will  be  awaiting  me,  as  I 
conceive,  within  this  little  villa,  a 
treasure  which  shall  alter  the  reading 
of  nearly  all  the  history  of  the  world's 
creation — an  iron  weapon  coeval  with 
the  cave-dweller.  Will  you  be  with 
me,  my  friend,  at  this  great  moment 
of  my  life,  when  I  shall  see  my  treasure 
trove  in  something  approaching  its 
original  shape  ? " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,  Fleg ;  jammed 
interesting,  you  know.  Great  privi- 
lege I  mean  to  say.  Assure  you  I 
feel  it  so." 

The  savant  grasped  his  friend's  hand 
with  grateful  pressure,  and  the  two 
entered  the  house  together.  The 
servant  told  Mr.  Fleg  that  a  young 
man  from  London  had  delivered  a 
parcel,  with  careful  instructions  for  its 
safety  and  welfare.  Mr.  Fleg  led  the 
way  into  his  study,  and  there  beneath 
the  approving  figures  of  the  giant 
skeletons  rested,  in  an  ordinary  deal 
box,  on  an  ordinary  mahogany  table, 
the  iron  weapon  of  the  cave-man.  Then 
Mr.  Fleg  rang  the  bell  for  hammer 
and  chisel.  His  nervousness  was  some- 
thing pitiable  to  see.  He  could  not 
sit  still  while  the  tools  were  brought. 
His  hand  trembled  so  that  he  could 
not  use  them  to  any  effect  when  they 
came. 

"  Here,  let  me !  " 

Colonel  Burscough  took  them  from 
him  and  began  to  work  and  hammer 
on  the  box  in  angry  vigour.  Mr. 
Fleg  seated  himself  in  an  armchair  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  bury- 
ing his  face  in  his  hands  rocked  him- 
self back  and  forward  in  the  agony  of 
his  suspense.  He  could  not  bear  to 
look. 

There  was  a  sound  of  crashing  wood 
and  rending  metal.  Then  there  was 
comparative  sile^e  while  the  Colonel 
rummaged  in  the  shavings  and  paper 
with  which  the  box  was  stuffed.  Mr. 
Fleg  no  longer  groaned.    His  suspense 


A  CuHo%is  Discovery. 


63 


had  become  too  intense  for  uny  expres- 
sion, and  he  remained  motionless,  with- 
out a  sound  awaiting  Colonel  Burs- 
cough's  word  that  the  relic  was 
revealed. 

The  waiting  seemed  very  long.  Mr. 
Fleg  grasped  an  arm  of  his  chair  with 
either  hand,  and  in  a  semi-catalepsy 
of  the  muscles  fastened  his  eyes  rigidly 
upon  Colonel  Burscough's  face  to  read 
the  feelings  evoked  by  the  first  sight 
of  the  wondrous  relic. 

For  the  Colonel's  expression  had 
undergone  a  singular  change. 

The  silence  grew  deeper  and  more 
painful,  and  to  Mr.  Fleg  it  began  to 
seem  that  Colonel  Burscough,  the  room, 
the  relic,  everything,  were  far,  far 
away.  He  was  mocked  by  a  sense  of 
dream-like  unreality. 

And  the  change  on  Colonel  Burs- 
cough's  face  responded  likewise  to  a 
vision  of  things  far  away —  far  distant 
both  in  time  and  place.  He  felt  him- 
self transported  back  to  a  certain  day 
a  twelvemonth  since,  and  to  a  painful 
scene  of  his  humiliation  upon  the 
Pebblecombe  links — the  day  on  which 
he  had  first  suffered  defeat  at  the 
learned  hands  of  Mr.  Fleg.  The  whole 
scene  was  before  him.  The  day  was 
a  particularly  warm  and  sunny  one. 
The  bees  hummed  over  the  wild  flowers, 
the  sand-flies  buzzed  in  the  bunkers. 
Warmth  and  flies  are  fearful  aggrava- 
tions to  the  wrath  of  an  angry  man. 
And  Colonel  Burscough,  on  this  par- 
ticularly beautiful  summer's  day,  saw 
himself  a  very  angry  man  indeed — 
angry  so  much  beyond  his  wont  that 
his  anger  found  no  expression  ;  it  was 
at  silent  white  heat.  He  took  his  clubs 
from  his  caddie  with  an  unusual  gentle- 
ness that  had  meaning.  He  handled 
them  with  the  caressant  ferocity  of  a 
cat  playing  with  a  mouse.  He  strode 
over  the  great  ridge  of  pebbles  which 
keeps  back  the  sea  at  Pebblecombe  and 
down  on  to  the  sands.  It  was  low 
tide.  No  one  was  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood ;  but  he  well  knew  that 
in  ambush  on  the  top  of  the  pebble 
ridge,  peering  over,  were  all  the  mem- 
bers there  present  of  the  Koyal  Pebble- 


combe Golf  Club  and  all  the  club- 
makers,  caddies,  ground-men,  and  all 
who  were  in  any  capacity  whatsoever 
associated  with  the  royal  and  ancient 
game  in  the  vicinity.  And  each  looked 
over  with  all  his  two  eyes,  as  carefully 
as  though  he  had  been  stalking  a  tiger, 
and  gazed  at  the  Colonel  who  had 
seated  himself  on  the  foot  of  the 
ridge. 

The  Colonel  saw  himself  take  off 
his  boots.  And  though  none  of  the 
watchers  might  know  what  this  be- 
tokened, they  held  a  collective  silence 
and  looked  with  all  their  eyes. 

The  Colonel  took  off  his  clothes — 
that  is  to  say  very  nearly  all — retain- 
ing only  such  as  a  perfunctory  regard 
for  decency  forbade  him  to  part  with. 
Then  he  walked  out,  carrying  his 
clubs  over  the  sand. 

And  all  the  while  he  was  conscious 
of  the  watchers  who  watched  him  in 
silence  as  he  walked,  walking  with  the 
deliberate  purpose  of  a  man  whose 
mind  is  firmly  fixed.  He  did  not 
pause  an  instant  when  he  reached  the 
sea.  He  went  straight  in,  and  presently 
the  breakers  were  dashing  now  over 
his  hips,  now  over  his  shoulders.  If 
he  went  deeper  he  would  have  to  swim. 
Once  he  stumbled  badly,  but  contrived 
to  recover  himself  ;  then  he  drew  him- 
self to  his  full  height  in  the  water 
and  raised  his  right  hand  high  out  of 
it.  And  in  his  right  hand  was  a  golf 
club.  He  whirled  this  golf  club  once 
round  his  head,  as  a  cowboy  twirls  his 
lasso — then  launched  it  out,  far  as 
ever  he  could  throw  it,  into  the  sea. 

Then  he  reached  down  for  another, 
under  his  left  arm — even  as  an  archer 
reaches  for  the  arrows  in  his  quiver — 
and  hurled  that  one  after  the  first. 

Again  and  yet  again,  and  again  he 
did  this — until  the  whole  set  of  nine 
clubs  had  been  hurled  beyond  the 
fui'thest  breaker.  Then  he  turned  and 
strode  back  out  of  the  surf,  the  black- 
ness of  his  mood  a  trifle  tempered  by 
the  completeness  of  the  sacrifice. 
And  thus  was  consummated  the  third 
and  last  of  the  great  ordeals — the  Or- 
deal by  Water. 


64 


A  Curious  Discovery. 


Such  was  the  vision  that  passed 
before  the  Coloners  dreamy  eyes  while 
he  gazed  upon  Mr.  Fleg's  wondrous 
relic,  and  while  Mr.  Fleg  grasped  con- 
vulsively the  two  arms  of  his  chair. 

At  length  to  Mr.  Fleg*s  expectancy 
the  very  silence  grew  full  of  menac- 
ant  voices.  He  could  endure  no 
longer. 

'*  Well  ?  "  he  gasped. 

Then  Colonel  Burscough  roused 
himself  from  his  abstraction  and  he 
too  said  "  Well !  "—but  without  the 
interrogation. 

Then  he  paused  again ;  but  after  a 
moment  he  resumed,  speaking  very 
solemnly — **  Fleg,  do  you  remember 
that  day  on  which  you  first  beat  me 
in  a  golf  match  ? " 

Did  he  remember  it  ]  Would  he 
ever  forget  it  1  Mr.  Fleg  thought  the 
Colonel  was  about  to  draw  some  fruit- 
ful comparison  between  that  great  red- 
letter  day  in  the  professorial  life  and 
this.  "  Indeed,  my  friend,  I  remember 
it  well,"  Mr.  Fleg  gasped  from  the 
chair. 

"  And  on  that  day,  Fleg,  I  waded  far 
out  into  the  sea.   I  threw  my  golf  clubs 


from   me — ^for   ever,   as  I  thought — 
into  the  Atlantic.'* 

"  I  know,  I  know,  my  friend,"  said 
Mr.  Fleg  moved,  in  this  the  day  of  his 
brightest  triumph,  to  deepest  sym- 
pathy for  that  the  blackest  day  of 
defeat  for  his  friend. 

"  I  slipped,"  the  Colonel  continued. 
"  For  a  moment  I  thought  I  was 
drowned " 

**  I  remember,"  Mr.  Fleg  murmured, 
with  yet  warmer  sympathy. 

"  But  I  recovered  myself  by  stick- 
ing one  of  my  clubs  down  through 
the  sea  upon  the  treacherous  mud  on 
which  I  slipped.  I  recovered  myself, 
but  the  club  broke  short  off  at  the 
head." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Fleg  vaguely. 

"  It  was  the  niblick,  Fleg — and  I  had 
thought  never  to  see  that  niblick-head 
again.  But  here — steel  yourself,  Fleg, 
I  fear  this  may  be  a  blow  to  you— it 
was  no  cave-man's  weapon,  this,  Fleg ; 
only  a  bunker-man's — this  iron  weapon 
of  your  Stone  Age  is  that  very  niblick. 
Here  is  the  inscription,  legible  on  it 
still  —  Jaiiies  Wilson,  Maker,  St, 
Andrews.'^ 

Horace  Hutchinson. 


65 


COWPER'S   LETTERS. 


It  is  often  said  that  the  delight- 
ful art  of  letter  -  writing  is  dead. 
No  doubt  circumstances  are  not  so  fa- 
vourable to  it  as  they  once  were,  as 
they  were,  for  instance,  in  the  last 
century,  the  golden  age  of  the  letter- 
writer.  It  never  does  to  have  too 
much  of  a  good  thing,  and  so  Rowland 
Hill,  and  Penny  Posts,  and  hourly  de- 
liveries, have  very  nearly  killed  the 
old-fashioned  letter  which  rambled 
and  gossiped  and  wandered  at  will  up 
and  down  all  sorts  of  subjects,  over- 
flowing into  every  corner  of  the  paper 
except  just  the  little  space  required 
for  the  address  on  one  side  and  the 
seal  on  the  other.  When  you  paid 
fourpence,  or  sixpence,  or  more  for  a 
letter,  or  had  had  the  trouble  of  asking 
a  Parliamentary  acquaintance  for  a 
frank,  you  naturally  took  your  money's 
worth.  And  then  in  the  last  century 
everybody  seems  to  have  had  plenty 
of  time ;  nowadays  we  are  all  in  a 
hurry  from  morning  to  night.  And 
hurry,  which  ruins  nearly  everything 
from  bootlaces  to  epic  poems,  is  no 
friend  to  letters,  though  not  so  fatal 
to  them  as  to  more  ambitious  produc- 
tions. Byron  may  dash  down  on  his 
paper,  in  his  headlong,  helter-skelter 
sort  of  way,  the  last  witticisms  and 
personalities  that  happen  to  be  sim- 
mering in  his  excited  brain,  and  the 
effect  is  very  characteristic  and  very 
telling.  But  the  best  letters  cannot 
be  written  so.  Hurry  and  exuberance 
of  this  kind  weary  in  the  end,  and 
leave  an  uncomfortable  sensation  of 
disorder  and  unrest  in  the  mind ;  the 
highest  productions  of  every  kind,  in 
art,  or  music,  or  literature,  however 
intense  may  be  the  immediate  delight 
they  give,  leave  the  mind  to  settle  in 
the  end  into  a  sort  of  quiet  enjoyment. 
The  pleasure  over,  we  rest  in  calm 
satisfaction.      And  this  must  be  the 

No.  385. — VOL.  Lxv. 


law  in  letter-writing,  as  in  everything 
else,  if  letters  are  to  be  read.  They 
can  only  rank  as  literature  by  sub- 
mitting to  conditions  to  which  litera- 
ture submits.  And  there  will  not 
only  be  the  general  conditions  at- 
tached to  all  composition  to  be  taken 
into  account,  but  special  conditions 
attached  to  this  particular  form  of 
composition.  It  is  at  first  sight  a 
little  doubtful  what  the  characteristics 
of  a  good  letter  are.  Some  people 
think  it  merely  a  matter  of  conver- 
sation through  the  post ;  and  there  is 
certainly  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for 
this  theory  ;  the  elaborately  composed 
letter  is  the  worst  possible  letter. 
Ease  and  naturalness,  lightness  of 
touch,  the  sense  for  the  little  things 
which  are  the  staple  of  conversation 
and  correspondence  as  well  as  of  life, 
the  ever-present  consciousness  that  one 
is  simply  one's  self  and  not  an  author 
or  an  editor,  are  of  all  qualities  the 
most  essential  in  a  letter.  A  good 
letter  is  like  a  good  present — a  link 
between  two  personalities,  having 
something  of  each  in  it.  It  is  empha- 
tically from  one  man,  or  woman,  to 
another,  in  contrast,  for  instance,  to  a 
newspaper,  which  is  from  nobody  or 
anybody  to  anybody  or  nobody.  But 
if  this  were  all,  Byron  would  be  incon- 
testably  the  best  of  our  letter-writers. 
Nothing  could  possiblybe  more  personal, 
and  characteristic  and  spontaneous, 
than  his  letters  :  his  likes  and  dislikes, 
his  pleasures  and  disappointments,  his 
passing  fancies,  schemes,  whims,  are 
poured  out  in  them  with  a  force  and 
freshness  which  are  unrivalled  and 
inimitable.  It  is  just  as  if  he  were 
talking,  and  talking  with  the  freedom 
and  openness  of  a  man  at  a  friendly 
supper-party  ;  and  of  course  his  evi- 
dent frankness  doubles  the  interest 
and  importance  of  it  all.     But  after 

F 


66 


Gowpers  Letters. 


all  writing  is  not  talking,  and  an 
exuberance  which  might  perhaps  be 
delightful,  when  broken  by  other 
voices  and  lighted  up  by  all  the  play 
of  eye  and  feature,  becomes  after  a 
time  intolerable  in  a  volume  of  letters. 
It  is  the  same  thing,  I  suppose,  as 
one  sees  in  portraits,  where  a  too 
energetic  or  spirited  attitude  nearly 
always  produces  failure.  Whatever 
makes  a  claim  to  permanence  must 
have  at  least  a  suggestion  of  repose 
about  it. 

English  literature  is  fairly  rich  in 
good  letters,  and  in  the  very  first 
rank  of  the  best  come  the  liters  of 
the  recluse,  who  might  naturally  be 
supposed  to  have  nothing  to  write 
about,  the  quiet,  retiring,  half-Metho- 
dist poet,  William  Cowper.  They  are 
written  in  the  most  beautifully  easy 
English,  and  he  steers  his  way  with 
unfailing  instinct  between  the  opposite 
dangers  of  pompousness  and  vulgarity, 
which  are  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of 
the  letter-writer.  They  are  not  set 
compositions,  but  he  never  forgets  that 
he  is  writing,  not  talking ;  they  con- 
tain long  discussions,  yet  he  does  not 
often  forget  that  he  is  writing  a  letter 
and  not  a  book.  The  most  striking 
proof  of  his  wonderful  gifts  in  this 
direction  is  the  story  of  his  life.  He 
was  not  a  leading  figure  in  the  world 
of  fashion,  like  Horace  Walpole  and 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  ;  he  was 
not  even  a  scholar  or  a  man  of  letters 
with  intellectual  friends,  like  Gray 
and  Carlyle;  still  less  had  he  been 
behind  the  great  political  curtain  like 
Chesterfield,  or  travelled  everywhere 
and  been  the  talk  of  all  the  world  like 
Byron.  Nearly  all  his  letters  are 
written  upon  the  most  ordinary  sub- 
jects to  the  most  ordinary  people,  and 
written  either  from  Olney,  which  was 
certainly  a  very  dull  place,  or  from 
Weston  Underwood,  which  cannot  have 
been  a  very  lively  one.  And  yet  I  doubt 
much  if  a  volume  so  good  and  readable 
as  Mr.  Benham*s  Selected  Letters  of 
Cowper  in  the  Golden  Treasury  Series 
could  be  made  out  of  those  of  any  one 
else.    Not  even  Gray,  T  fancy,  in  spite 


of  the  fascination  of  his  character  and 
the  delicate  charm  of  his  humour,  in 
spite  of  the  combination  of  real  learn- 
ing with  those  high  gifts  of  imagina- 
tion and  sensibility  which  make  him  a 
unique  figure  in  the  last  century,  has 
left  so  many  letters  likely  to  retain  a 
permanent  interest  as  Cowper.  Gray's 
letters  are  delightful  as  is  everything 
of  his,  but  simply  as  letters  they  do  * 
not  seem  to  me  so  perfect  as  Cowper' s. 
Nor  is  the  reason  perhaps  very  hard 
ta  find.  Other  things  being  equal,  of 
two  writers  or  painters  the  one  who 
has  chosen  the  better  subject  will 
clearly  succeed  best.  Now  Cowper  of 
all  writers  of  letters  has  the  best  sub- 
ject, because  he  has  no  subject  at  all. 
And  so  he  is  led  into  quiet  gossiping 
self -revelation,  little  humorous  touches 
about  himself  and  his  correspondents, 
the  nothings  that  filled  up  their  lives 
as  they  fill  up  ours,  their  likes  and  dis- 
likes, their  sayings  and  doings,  their 
comings  and  goings.  Human  nature 
is  always  and  everywhere  of  the  same 
stuff,  and  the  glimpses  these  letters 
give  us  of  kind  old  Mrs.  XJnwin,  and 
"my  dearest  Coz,"  Lady  Hesketh, 
and  *<Mrs.  Frog,"  and  "Johnny" 
Johnson,  and,  fullest  and  best  of  all, 
of  "  yoiu*  humble  me,  W.  C,"  can 
never  lose  their  interest,  because  the 
human  nature  they  show  us  is  the 
same  as  we  see  around  us  every  day, 
and  as  our  sons  and  grandsons  will  see 
too  when  we  have  vanished  in  our 
turn  as  completely  as  Cowper  and  his 
friends.  Not  that  of  coiu'se  mere  ac- 
curacy is  enough  in  drawing  human 
nature, — that  may  be  found — is  found 
often  enough — in  the  dullest  and  most 
insipid  novels ;  it  is  when  the  eye  to 
see  is  found  in  company  with  the  power 
of  feeling  life's  joys  and  sorrows, 
and  with  the  gift  for  telling  the 
tale,  that  the  books  are  written 
which  never  grow  out  of  date.  Few 
men  have  had  these  gifts  more  fully 
than  Cowper,  and  it  is  a  pity  that 
he  never  wrote  a  novel.  If  he  had 
done  so,  we  might  have  the  two 
sides  of  English  middle-class  life  in 
the  country  and  the   country   towns 


Gowper's  Letters. 


67 


drawn   in   one    picture ;    the   simple 
goodness  of  the  immortal  Vicar  side 
by  side  with  the  delightful  vanity  and 
self-importance  of  Mrs.  Bennett  and 
Mrs.  Alien.     Perhaps,  too,  the  creator 
of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  might  have 
found    a    successor;    for  Cowper    re- 
calls    Addison    on    more    than     one  . 
point,  in     the    quiet    reserve    which 
gives    such   charm    to    his    humour, 
and  in  the  delicacy  of  his  touch  as  well 
as    in   the    ease    and    purity    of    his 
English.      Meanwhile  the  letters  are 
the  only  substitute  we  have  for  the 
unwritten  novel,  and  there  could  not 
be  a  better.      It  would  not  be   easy 
to  find  a  more   charming  exhibition 
of     the    novelist's     gift    of     making 
us  at   once   at  home  in  the  world  to 
which  he  wishes  to  introduce  us,  than 
this  little  letter   of  Cowper's   to   his 
cousin.  Lady  Hesketh,  before  her  first 
visit  to  him  at  Olney.     We  have  only 
to  read  its  few  sentences,  and  we  can 
hardly  fail  to   carry  away  with  us  a 
fairly  clear  idea  of   what  manner  of 
man  he  was,  a  fairly  true  picture  of 
him  and  his  life  and   ways   and  sur- 
roundings, and,  what  is  much  more,  a 
disposition  to  like  him  and  sympathise 
with  him,  and  a  wish  to  know  more  of 
him.   The  novelist  who  can  accomplish 
his  introductory  duties   as  well  is  a 
happy  man ;  and  certainly  I   cannot 
find  anything  which  will  serve  better 
as  an  introduction  both  to  Cowper  and 
to  his  letters.     Here  it  is. 

And  now,  my  dear,  let  me  tell  you 
once  more  that  your  kindness  in  promising 
us  a  visit  has  charmed  us  both.  I  shall 
Hee  you  again.  I  shall  hear  your  voice. 
We  shall  take  walks  together.  I  will  show 
you  my  prospects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove, 
the  Ouse  and  its  banks,  everything  that  I 
have  described.  Talk  not  of  an  inn  1 
Mention  it  not  for  your  life!  We  have 
never  had  so  many  visitors  but  we  could 
easily  accommodate  them  all ;  though  we 
have  received  Unwin,  and  his  wife,  and 
his  sister,  and  his  son,  all  at  once.  My 
dear,  I  will  not  let  you  come  till  the  end 
of  May,  or  beginning  of  June,  because 
before  that  time  my  greenhouse  will  not 
be  ready  to  receive  us,  and  it  is  the  only 
pleasant  room  belonging  to  us.  When  the 
plants  go  out,  we  go  in.    I  line  it  with 


mats,  and  spread  the  floor  with  mats  ;  and 
there  you  shall  sit  with  a  bed  of  mignon- 
ette at  your  side,  and  a  hedge  of  honey- 
suckles, roses,  and  jasmine ;   and  I  will 
make  you  a  bouquet  of  myrtle  every  day. 
Sooner  than  the  time  I  mention  the  coun- 
try will  not  be  in  complete  beauty  ;  and  I 
will    tell    you    what    you  shall    find  at 
your  first  entrance.     Imprimis,  as  soon  as 
you  have  entered  the  vestibule,  if  you  cast 
a  look  on  either  side  of  you,  you  shall  see 
on  the  right  hand  a  box  of  my  making* 
It  is  the  box  in  which  have  been  lodged 
all  my  hares,  and  in  which  lodges  Puss  ^ 
at  present.     But  he,  poor  fellow,  is  worn 
out  with  age  and  promises  to  die  before 
you  can  see  him.     On  the    right    hand 
stands  a  cupboard,  the  work  of  the  same 
author ;  it  was  once  a  dove-cage,  but  I 
transformed  it.     Opposite  to  you  stands  a 
table,  which  I  also  made.     But  a  merciless 
servant,  having  scrubbed  it  till  it  became 
paralytic,  it  serves  no  purpose  now  but  of 
ornament ;  and  all  my  clean  shoes  stand 
under  it.     On  the  left  hand,  at  the  farther 
end  of  this  superb  vestibule,  you  will  find 
the  door  of  the  parlour,  into  which  I  will 
conduct  you,   and   where  I   will    intro- 
duce   you    to    Mrs.  Unwin,    unless    we 
should  meet  her  before,  and  where  we  will 
be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.     Order 
yourself,  my  cousin,   to  the   *  Swan '  at 
Newport  and  there  you  shall  find  me  ready 
to  conduct  you  to  Olney.  My  dear,  I  have 
told  Homer  what  you  say  about  casks  and 
urns,  and  have  asked  him  whether  he  is 
sure  that  it  is  a  cask  in   which  Jupiter 
keeps  his  wine.     He  swears  that  it  is  a 
cask,  and  that  it  will  never  be  anything 
better  than  a  cask  to  eternity.     So  if  the 
god  is  content  with  it,  we  must  even  won- 
der at  his  taste,  and  be  so  too. — Adieu  ! 
my  dearest,  dearest  cousin, — ^W.  C. 

Did  ever  poet's  cousin  have  prettier 
welcome?  There  is  nothing  clever  in 
the  letter,  nothing  much  to  catch  the 
eye  or  explain  the  fascination,  and  yet 
every  time  we  read  it  we  like  it  the 
better.  Where  does  the  charm  lie? 
Perhaps  in  the  choice  and  delicate 
English  Cowper  always  employs ;  per- 
haps in  the  simple  prettiness  of  the 
picture,  or,  it  may  be,  in  the  perfect, 
if  unconscious,  firmness  and  delicacy 
with  which  it  is  executed  ;  more  likely 
still,  perhaps,  in  the  attraction  ex- 
ercised upon  us  by  Cowper's  own  over- 
flowing good   nature   which  seems  to 

^  Cowper's  tame  hare. 

F  2 


68 


Cowper's  Letters. 


have  an  affectionate  word  not  only  for 
his  cousin  and  his  hares,  but  for  every- 
thing about  him  down  to  the  mignon- 
ette and  the  roses  and  the  honey- 
suckle, and  even  the  poor  paralytic 
table. 

This  letter  belongs  to  the  happiest 
period  of  his  life,  the  time  one  naturally 
goes  to  when  one  wishes  to  see  him 
most  himself.  If  we  are  to  date  him 
by  a  floruit  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin  poets,  1786,  the  year 
in  which  this  letter  was  written,  would 
be  almost  exactly  his  central  year. 
But  his  letters  are  not  confined  to 
that  happy  time,  and  we  can,  if  we 
like,  almost  follow  him  all  through 
his  life  with  their  help.  I  have  given 
a  frontispiece,  as  it  were,  from  his 
years  of  health  and  fame  and  quiet 
happiness  ;  but  we  had  better  now  go 
back  to  the  beginning,  and  take  things 
orderly  as  they  come. 

His  life  is  broken  into  very  simple 
divisions.  He  was  born  at  Berkhamp- 
stead  Rectory  in  1731,  went  to  school 
at  Westminster,  and  entered  at  the 
Middle  Temple  in  1748.  London  was 
his  home  till  1763,  when  he  first  went 
out  of  his  mind.  He  seems  to  have 
lived  a  pleasant  enough  life  while  in 
London,  not  much  troubled  with  the 
law,  but  spending  his  time  in  a  care- 
less sort  of  fashion  with  young  literary 
men  like  himself,  among  whom  were 
Lloyd  and  Colman,  and  perhaps 
Churchill.  Probably  he  was  much  like 
other  young  men  who  lived  in  the 
Temple  in  those  days,  when  it  was 
said  of  it:  **The  Temple  is  stocked 
with  its  peculiar  beaux,  wits,  poets, 
critics,  and  every  character  in  the  gay 
world  j  and  it  is  a  thousand  pities  that 
so  pretty  a  society  should  be  disgraced 
with  a  few  dull  fellows  who  can  sub- 
mit to  puzzle  themselves  with  cases 
and  reports."  From  1763  to  1765  he 
was  in  an  asylum ;  and  it  was  there 
that,  on  recovering,  he  first  received 
those  strong  religious  impressions 
which  coloured  the  rest  of  his  life.  He 
lived  at  Huntingdon  from  1765  to 
1767,  most  of  the  time  with  the 
Unwins,  a   clergyman's    family   with 


whom  he  became  very  intimate.  After 
Mr.  Unwinds  death  in  1767,  he  and 
Mrs.  Unwin  moved  to  Olney,  where 
they  stayed  till  1787.  Here  his  poetry 
was  mainly  written,  though  his 
happiest  days  were  probably  those 
spent  at  Weston  Underwood,  a  country 
village  not  far  from  Olney,  to  which 
Lady  Hesketh  persuaded  them  to  move 
in  1787.  There  he  stayed  till  1795, 
and  only  left  it  because  his  terrible 
malady  was  so  plainly  returning  that 
his  young  cousin,  John  Johnson,  wished 
to  have  him  with  him  in  Norfolk 
where  he  could  be  always  by  his  side. 
There  he  remained  in  different  houses, 
but  always  in  the  same  melancholy 
state,  till  the  end  came  at  Dereham  in 
April  1800. 

There  are  very  few  letters  of  the 
London  period  extant,  but  one  of  the 
few  is  so  characteristic  of  Cowper  and 
his  ea§y,  good-natured,  sensible  way 
of  looking  at  life,  that  I  must  quote 
some  of  it.  It  is,  if  possible,  truer 
and  timelier  in  our  day  than  it  was 
in  his ;  for  ,  there  seems  to  be  no 
more  universally  accepted  doctrine 
nowadays  than  that  the  whole  of 
life  is  to  be  absorbed  in  getting,  or, 
equally  often  in  unnecessarily  increas- 
ing, the  material  means  of  life  ;  no 
time  being  lost  on  life  itself,  in  the 
higher  meaning  of  the  word.  Cowper 
and  Thurlow  were  in  early  years  in 
the  same  attorney's  office.  Perhaps 
after  all  to  us  who  look  back  on  it 
now,  the  obscui*e  and  comparatively 
poor  poet  may  seem  to  have  got  as 
much  out  of  life  as  the  Lord  Chancellor ! 
There  may  even  be  people  bold  enough 
to  maintain  that  Cowper's  life  was 
better  worth  living  than  Thurlow's 
even  if  his  poetry  had  been  a  failure. 

But  here  is  the  letter  or  part  of  it : 

If  my  resolution  to  be  a  great  man  was 
half  so  strong  as  it  is  to  despise  the  shame 
of  being  a  little  one,  I  should  not  despair 
of  a  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  with 
all  its  appurtenances  :  for  there  is  nothing 
more  certain,  and  I  could  prove  it  by  a 
thousand  instances,  than  that  every  man 
may  be  rich  if  he  will.  What  is  die  in- 
dustry of  half  the  industrious  men  in  the 


Gowpers  Letters. 


69 


world  but  avarice  1  and,  call  it  by  which 
name  you  will,  it  almost  always  succeeds. 
But  this  provokes  me,  that  a  covetous 
dog,  who  will  work  by  candle-light  in  the 
morning  to  get  what  he  does  not  want, 
shall  be  praised  for  his  thriftiness,  while  a 
gentleman  shall  be  abused  for  submitting 
to  his  wants,  rather  than  work  like  an  ass 

to    relieve    them Upon    the 

whole,  my  dear  Rowley,  there  is  a  degree 
of  poverty  that  has  no  disgrace  belonging 
to  it ;  that  degree  of  it,  I  mean,  in  which 
a  man  enjoys  clean  linen  and  good  com- 

Sany  ;  and,  if  I  never  sink  below  this 
egree  of  it,  I  care  not  if  I  never  rise 
above  it.  This  is  a  strange  epistle,  nor 
can  I  imagine  how  the  devil  I  came  to 
write  it :  but  here  it  is,  such  as  it  is,  and 
much  good  may  you  do  with  it. 

There  are  naturally  no  letters  while 
he  was  at  St.  Alban's,  but  they  begin 
again  as  soon  as  he  gets  to  Hunting- 
don. His  experiences  of  keeping  house 
for  two  persons  are  like  other  people's 
before  and  since  : 

Dear  Joe,  [he  is  writing  to  Joseph 
Hill,  who  was  his  business  adviser  through 
life,  and  the  best  of  friends  beside].  — 
Whatever  you  may  think  of  the  mat- 
ter, it  is  no  easy  thing  to  keep  house 
for  two  people.  A  man  cannot  always 
live  upon  sheep's  heads  and  liver  and 
lights,  like  the  lions  in  the  Tower  ;  and  a 
joint  of  meat  in  so  small  a  family  is  an 
endless  incumbrance.  My  butcher's  bill 
for  the  last  week  amounted  to  four  shil- 
lings and  tenpence.  I  set  off  with  a  leg 
of  lamb,  and  was  forced  to  give  part  of  it 
away  to  my  washerwoman.  Then  I  made 
an  experience  upon  a  sheep'sheart,  and  that 
was  too  little.  Next  I  put  three  pounds 
of  beef  into  a  pie,  and  this  had  like  to 
have  been  too  much,  for  it  lasted  three 
days,  though  my  landlord  was  admitted  to 
a  share  of  it.  Then  as  to  small  beer,  I  am 
puzzled  to  pieces  about  it.  I  have  bought 
as  much  for  a  shilling  as  will  serve  us  at 
least  a  month,  and  it  is  grown  soiir  al- 
ready. In  short,  I  never  knew  how  to 
pity  poor  housekeepers  before  :  but  now  I 
cease  to  wonder  at  the  politic  cast  which 
their  occupation  usually  gives  to  their 
countenance,  for  it  is  really  a  matter  full 
of  perplexity. 

Huntingdon  must  have  seemed  a 
quiet  place  after  London,  but  Cowper 
seems  to  have  settled  down  easily 
enough.     '^  Here  is  a  card  assembly,'' 


he  writes,  "and  a  dancing  assembly, 
and  a  horse  race,  and  a  club,  and  a 
bowling  green, — so  that  I  am  well  off, 
you  perceive,  in  point  of  diversions ; 
especially  as  I  shall  go  to  'em  just  as 
much  as  I  should  if  I  lived  a  thousand 
miles  off."  The  chief  attraction  to  him 
was  apparently  the  river.  **The  river 
Ouse, — I  forget  how  they  spell  it  — 
is  the  most  agreeable  circumstance  in 
this  part  of  the  world :  at  this  town  it 
is,  I  believe,  as  wide  as  the  Thames  at 
Windsor  :  nor  does  the  silver  Thames 
better  deserve  that  epithet,  nor  has  it 
more  flowers  upon  its  banks,  these 
being  attributes,  which,  in  strict  truth, 
belong  to  neither.  Fluellen  would  say, 
they  are  as  like  as  my  fingers  to  my 
fingers,  and  there  is  salmon  in  both. 
It  is  a  noble  stream  to  bathe  in,  and  I 
shall  make  that  use  of  it  three  times 
a  week,  having  introduced  myself  to  it 
for  the  first  time  this  morning." 

Having  given  bits  from  these  letters 
to  Hill,  I  ought  not  to  omit  what  may 
be  regarded  as,  in  a  certain  sense,  the 
other  side  of  the  picture.  In  the 
earnestness  and  enthusiasm  of  his  new- 
born religious  feelings,  he  had  entered 
with  the  Unwins  on  a  course  of  life 
which  was  very  dangerous  to  one  who 
had  suffered  as  he  had,  and  which  in- 
deed was  not  long  in  showing  itself 
so.     This  is  how  they  lived  : 

We  breakfast  commonly  between  eight 
and  nine  :  till  eleven  we  read  either  the 
Scripture,  or  the  sermons  of  some  faithful 
preacher  of  those  holy  mysteries :  at  eleven 
we  attend  Divine  Service,  which  is  per- 
formed here  twice  every  day  :  and  from 
twelve  to  three  we  separate  and  amuse 
ourselves  as  we  please.  During  that  inter- 
val 1  either  read  in  my  own  apartment,  or 
walk,  or  ride,  or  work  in  the  garden.  We 
seldom  sit  an  hour  after  dinner:  but,  if 
the  weather  permits,  adjourn  to  the 
garden,  where,  with  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her 
son,  I  have  generally  the  pleasure  of  re- 
ligious conversation  till  tea-time.  If  it 
rains,  or  is  too  windy  for  walking,  we 
either  converse  within  doors,  or  sing  some 
hymns  of  Martin's  collection  :  and,  by  the 
help  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  harpsichord,  make 
up  a  tolerable  concert,  in  which  our  hearts, 
I  hope,  are  the  best  and  most  musical  per- 
formers.   After  tea,  we  sally  forth  to  walk 


70 


Govrpers  Letters. 


in  good  earnest.  Mrs.  Unwin  is  a  good 
walker,  and  we  have  generally  travelled 
about  four  miles  before  we  see  home  again. 
At  night  we  read  and  converse  as  before 
till  supper,  and  commonly  finish  the  even- 
ing either  with  hymns  or  a  sermon,  and 
last  of  all  the  family  are  called  to  prayers. 

Well  might  Lady  Hesketh  say  after- 
wards, with  reference  to  days  spent  in 
similar  fashion  with  Mr.  Newton  ;  "  to 
such  a  tender  mind,  and  to  such  a 
wounded  yet  lively  imagination,  as  our 
cousin's,  I  am  persuaded  that  eternal 
praying  and  preaching  was  too  much." 
There  are,  no  doubt,  many  specially 
gifted  spiritual  natures  who  can 
literally  obey  the  "  Think  of  God  more 
frequently  than  you  breathe  "  of  Epic- 
tetus,  or  the  *'Pray  without  ceasing" 
of  St.  Paul ;  but  they  are  the  rare  ex- 
ceptions who  combine  the  saints'  love 
of  Go(J  and  sense  of  sin  with  an  ease 
and  cheerfulness  of  temperament  which 
in  any  one  else  would  be  called  Epi- 
curean. The  attempt  to  enforce  such 
a  life  produces,  if  the  first  of  the  quali- 
ties be  wanting,  the  cold  and  formal 
religion  of  the  monk  of  the  fifteenth 
century ;  if  the  second  be  absent,  as  in 
Cowper's  case,  it  produces  melancholy 
or  despair. 

Less  than  a  year  after  this  letter 
was  written  Mr.  Unwin  died,  and 
Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin  went  to  live 
at  Olney.  They  stayed  there  nearly 
twenty  years,  and  through  Cowper's 
letters  we  are  as  well  acquainted  with 
their  life  there  as  if  we  had  been  their 
next  door  neighbours.  His  way  of 
noting  and  describing  all  sorts  of 
details  and  small  matters,  which  other 
people  would  have  passed  over,  makes 
our  picture  of  the  little  house  at  Olney 
and  its  inhabitants  as  complete  as  an 
interior  by  Teniers  or  Ostade ;  only 
fortunately  the  inhabitants  are  rather 
more  attractive  than  the  boors  who  are 
too  often  the  only  figures  in  Dutch 
pictures.  A  neat  and  careful  gentle- 
man of  the  eighteenth  century  like 
Cowper,  particular  about  his  wigs  and 
buckles  being  of  the  fashionable  shape, 
was  not  likely  to  crowd  his  canvas  with 
the  drunken  ostlers  and  ploughmen  of 


Olney.  His  subjects  are  himself  and 
his  friends,  and  after  them  just  the 
first  thing  beside,  whatever  it  might 
be,  that  came  into  his  head.  Here  is 
his  theory  of  letter-writing  : 

My  Dear  Friend, — You  like  to  hear 
from  me  :  this  is  a  very  good  reason  why  I 
should  write.    But  I  have  nothing  to  say  : 
this  seems  equally  a  good  reason  why  I 
should  not.    Yet  if  you  had  alighted  from 
your  horse  at  our  door  this  morning,  and 
at  this  present  writing,  being  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,   had  found  occasion  to 
say  to  me,  *Mr.  Cowper,  you  have  not 
spoke  since  I  came  in  :  have  you  resolved 
never  to  speak  again  ? '  it  would  be  but  a 
poor  reply  if  in  answer  to  the  summons  I 
should  plead  inability  as  my  best  and  only 
excuse.     And  this  by  the  way  suggests  to 
me  a  seasonable  piece  of  instruction,  and 
reminds  me  of  what  I  am  very  apt  to  for- 
get, when  I  have  any  epistolary  business 
in  hand,  that  a  letter  may  be  written  upon 
anything  or  nothing,  just  as  that  anything 
or  nothing  happens  to  occur.     A  man  that , 
has  a  journey  before  him  twenty  miles  in 
length,   which  he  is  to  perform  on  foot, 
will  not  hesitate  and  doubt  whether  he 
shall  set  out  or  not,  because  he  does  not 
readily  conceive  how  he  shall  ever  reach 
the  end  of  it :  for  he  knows  that  by  the 
simple  operation  of  moving  one  foot  for- 
ward first,  and  then  the  other,  he  shall  be 
sure  to  accomplish  it.      So  it  is  in  the 
present  case,  and  so  it  is  in  every  similar 
case.    A  letter  is  written  as  a  conversation 
is  maintained,  or  a  journey  performed : 
not     by     preconcerted    or    premeditated 
means,  a  new  contrivance  or  an  invention  • 
never  heard  of  before, — but    merely  by 
maintaining  a  progress,  and  resolving  as  a 
postilion  does  having  once  set  out,  never 
to  stop  till  we  reach  the  appointed  end. 
If  a  man  may  talk  without  thinking,  why 
may  he  not  write  upon  the  same  terms  ? 
A  grave  gentleman  of  the  last  century,  a 
tie-wig,  square-toe,  Steinkirk  figure  would 
say — *  My  good  Sir,  a  man  has  no  right  to 
do  either.'    But  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
present  century  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
mouldy  opinions  of  the  last :  and  so,  good 
Sir  Launcelot,  or  Sir  Paul  or  whatever  be 
your  name,  step  into  your  picture  frame 
again,  and  leave  us  modems  to  think  when 
we  can  and  to  write  whether  we  can  or 
not,  else  we  might  as  well  be  dead  as  you 
are. 

The  difl&culty  in  writing  about  letters 
is  that  to  illustrate  one  must  quote ; 


Gowper's  Letters. 


71 


and  then,  as  the  charm  of  letters  lies, 
or  ought  to  lie,  in  the  large,  the 
quotation  of  a  line  or  two,  which  is 
often  enough  in  poetry,  does  not  do 
justice  to  the  letter-writer,  and  we 
have  to  quote  nearly  in  full — which 
again  demands  a  magnificent  disre- 
gard of  considerations  of  space. 
However,  this  letter  which  I  have 
just  been  giving,  seemed  to  me  to  have 
nearly  irresistible  claims,  for  not  only 
is  it  the  best  account  of  Cowper's  ideas 
about  writing  letters,  but  it  is  less 
accessible  than  many  others.  Mr. 
Benham,  who  has  got  most  of  the 
best  letters  in  his  selection,  has  left 
this  one  out. 

Cowper's  letters  are  generally  char- 
acterised by  a  sort  of  careless,  easy 
inevitableness,  but  he  could  go  o\it  of 
his  way  to  make  a  letter  sometimes. 
Here  is  a  bit  of  rhyming  tour  deforce 
sent  to  Mr.  Newton.  Its  subject  is 
his  first  volume  of  poems,  and  it  is 
curious  to  note  how,  for  all  its  clever- 
ness, it  remains  a  perfect  letter  with 
the  true  Janus-face  looking  back  to 
the  writer  and  on  to  the  recipient; 
the  rhyme  is  just  the  sort  of  joke 
Cowper  liked  ;  the  careful  explanation 
that  the  poems  were  written  **  in 
hopes  to  do  good  '*  is  as  plainly  the 
Newtonian  part  of  the  affair.  It 
begins,  **  My  very  dear  friend,  T  am 
goiug  to  send,  what  when  you  have 
read,  you  may  scratch  your  head,  and 
say,  I  suppose,  there's  nobody  knows, 
whether  what  I  have  got,  be  verse  or 
not, — by  the  tune  and  the  time,  it 
ought  to  be  rhyme ;  but  if  it  be,  did 
you  ever  see,  of  late  or  of  yore,  such 
a  ditty  before?"  This  sort  of  thing 
is  kept  up  all  through  the  letter  and 
then  he  ends  up :  "I  have  heard  be- 
fore, of  a  room  with  a  floor,  laid  upon 
springs,  and  such  like  things,  with 
so  much  art,  in  every  part,  that  when 
you  went  in,  you  was  forced  to  begin  a 
minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a  grace, 
swimming  about,  now  in  and  now  out, 
with  a  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of 
eight,  without  pipe  or  string,  or  any 
such  thing ;  and  now  I  have  writ,  in 
a  rhyming   fit,  what   will  make  you 


dance,  and  as  you  advance,  will  keep 
you  still,  though  against  yoiu*  will, 
dancing  away,  alert  and  gay,  till  you 
come  to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penned ; 
which  that  you  may  do,  ere  Madam  and 
you  are  quite  worn  out  with  jigging 
about,  I  take  my  leave,  and  here  you 
receive  a  bow  profound,  down  to 
the  ground,  from  your  humble  me, 
W.  C." 

A  letter  like  this  is  worth  giving, 
because  it  is  probably  unique  in  the 
annals  of  the  art ;  but  it  is  the  less 
striking  letters  that  are  really  more 
characteristic  of  Cowper.  The  best 
are  those  which  we  hardly  notice  the 
first  time  we  read  them,  but  like  better 
every  time  we  take  them  up.  One  of 
the  most  charming  of  the  letters  from 
Olney  is  the  second  he  wrote  to  Lady 
Hesketh  when  John  Gilpin  had  in- 
duced her  to  begin  their  old  corre- 
spondence again.  This  is  how  he  ends 
it  : 

I  have  not  answered  many  things  in 
your  letter,  nor  can  do  it  at  present  for 
want  of  room.  I  cannot  believe  but  that 
I  should  know  you,  notwithstanding  all 
that  time  may  have  done.  There  is  not  a 
feature  of  your  face,  could  I  meet  it  upon 
the  road  by  itself,  that  I  should  not  in- 
stantly recollect.  I  should  say,  that  is  my 
cousin's  nose,  or  those  are  her  lips  and  her 
chin,  and  no  woman  upon  earth  can  claim 
them  but  herself.  As  for  me,  I  am  a  very 
smart  youth  of  my  years.  I  am  not  indeed 
grown  gray  so  much  as  I  am  grown  bald. 
No  matter.  There  was  more  hair  in  the 
world  than  ever  had  the  honour  to  belong 
to  me.  Accordingly,  having  found  just 
enough  to  curl  a  little  at  my  ears,  and 
to  intermix  with  a  little  of  my  own  that 
still  hangs  behind,  I  appear,  if  you  see 
me  in  an  afternoon,  to  have  a  very  decent 
head-dress,  not  easily  distinguished  from 
my  natural  growth  :  which  being  worn 
with  a  small  oag,  and  a  black  ribbon  about 
my  neck,  continues  to  me  the  charms  of 
my  youth,  even  at  the  verge  of  age.  Away 
with  the  fear  of  writing  too  often.  Yours 
my  dearest  cousin,  W.  C. 

P.S.  That  tlie  view  I  give  you  of  myself 
may  be  complete,  I  add  the  two  follow- 
ing items,  that  I  am  in  debt  to  nobody,  and 
that  I  grow  fat. 

But  perhaps  the  most  inimitable 
and  delightful   of  all    Cowper's   epis- 


n 


Gowpers  Letters, 


l^lary  virtues  is  his  power  of  telling 
stories.  Everybody  has  felt  how 
little  power  the  ordinary  story-teller, 
whether  on  paper  or  in  conversation, 
has  of  making  us  go  with  him,  and 
see  the  thing  as  he  sees  it.  Cowper*s 
stories  are  as  alive  for  us  as  they 
were  for  his  friends.  Take  for  in- 
stance this  little  account  of  a  country 
election  in  the  old  days : 

We  were  sitting  yesterday  after  dinner, 
the  two  ladies  and  myself,  very  compo- 
sedly, and  without  the  least  apprehension 
of  any  such  intrusion,  in  our  snug  parlour, 
one  lady  knitting,  the  other  netting,  and 
the  gentleman  winding  worsted,  when,  to 
our  unspeakable  surprise,  a  mob  appeared 
before  the  window,  a  smart  rap  was  heard 
at  the  door,  the  boys  hallooed,  and  the 
maid  announced  Mr.  Grenville.  Puss  was 
unfortunately  let  out  of  her  box,  so  that 
the  candidate,  with  all  his  good  friends  at 
his  heels,  was  refused  admittance  at  the 
grand  entry,  and  referred  to  the  back  door, 
as  the  only  possible  way  of  approach. 
Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  sus- 
ceptible of  affronts,  and  would  rather,  I 
suppose,  climb  in  at  a  window  than  be  ab- 
solutely excluded.  In  a  minute,  the  yard, 
the  kitchen,  and  the  parlour  were  filled. 
Mr.  Grenville,  advancing  towards  me, 
shook  me  by  the  hand  with  a  degree  of 
cordiality  that  was  extremely  seducing. 
As  soon  as  he,  and  as  many  more  as  could 
find  chairs  were  seated,  he  began  to  open 
the  intent  of  his  visit.  I  told  him  I  had 
no  vote,  for  which  he  readily  gave  me 
credit.  I  assured  him  I  had  no  influence, 
AVjhich  he  was  not  equally  inclined  to 
believe,  and  the  less,  no  doubt,  because 
Mr.  Ashbumer,  the  drapier,  addressing 
himself  to  me  at  that  moment,  informed 
me  that  I  had  a  great  deal.  Supposing 
that  I  could  not  be  possessed  of  such  a 
treasure  without  knowing  it,  I  ventured  to 
confirm  my  first  assertion  by  saying  that  if 
I  had  any  I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to  ima- 
gine where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it  con- 
sisted. Thus  ended  the  conference.  Mr. 
Grenville  squeezed  me  by  the  hand  again, 
kissed  the  ladies,  and  withdrew.  He 
kissed  likewise  the  maid  in  the  kitchen, 
and  seemed  upon  the  whole  a  most  loving, 
kissing,  kind-hearted  gentleman. 

There  are  very  few  pictures  of  life 
in  the  last  century  where  the  figures 
stand  out  of  the  canvas  so  clear, 
direct,  and    natural,  with    their  own 


personality  about  them  as  they  do 
here.  And  how  charmingly  Cowper*s 
humour  lights  up  the  whole  picture  I 
He  is  always  amusing  about  himself 
and  his  own  importance,  and  gives  us 
a  number  of  little  touches  on  the  sub- 
ject which  are  worth  noting.  He 
had  no  poetic  contempt  for  personal 
adornment ;  when  his  friend  Unwin 
is  going  up  to  town,  he  writes  to 
him  :  "  My  head  will  be  obliged  to 
you  for  a  hat,  of  which  I  enclose  a 
string  that  gives  you  the  circumfer- 
ence. The  depth  of  the  crown  must 
be  four  inches  and  one  eighth.  Let  it 
not  be  a  round  slouch,  which  I  abhor, 
but  a  smart,  well-cocked,  fashionable 
affair.*' 

His  fame  too,  when  it  came,  amused 
him  very  much,  and  he  is  never  tired 
of  joking  about  it.  **  I  cannot  help 
adding  a  circumstance  that  will  divert 
you.  Martin  [an  innkeeper]  having 
learned  from  Sam  whose  servant  he 
was,  told  him  that  he  had  never  seen 
Mr.  Cowper,  but  he  had  heard  him 
frequently  spoken  of  by  the  companies 
that  had  called  at  his  house,  and  there- 
fore when  Sam  would  have  paid  for 
his  breakfast,  would  take  nothing 
from  him.  Who  says  that  fame  is 
only  empty  breath !  On  the  contrary 
it  is  good  ale  and  cold  beef  into  the 
bargain."  So  again,  and  neither  of 
these  are  given  by  Mr.  Benham  who, 
no  doubt,  could  not  find  room  for  all 
the  good  things, — "  I  have  been 
tickled  with  some  douceurs  of  a  very 
flattering  nature  by  the  post.  A  lady 
unknown  addresses  the  best  of  men ; 
— an  unknown  gentleman  has  read  my 
inimitable  poems,  and  invites  me  to 
his  seat  in  Hampshire — another 
incognito  gives  me  hopes  of  a  memorial 
in  his  garden,  and  a  Welsh  attorney 
sends  me  his  verses  to  revise,  and 
obligingly  asks, 

*  Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendant  sail. 
Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale  V 

"  If  you  find  me  a  little  vain  here- 
after, my  friend,  you  must  excuse  it, 
in  consideration  of  these  powerful  in- 
centives,   especially    the    latter:    for 


Cowper's  Letters. 


73 


surely  the  poet  who  can  charm  an 
attorney,  especially  a  Welsh  one,  must 
be  at  least  an  Orpheus,  if  not  some- 
thing greater."  And  he  tells  Lady 
Hesketh  :  "  I  have  received  an  anony- 
mous complimentary  Pindaric  Ode 
from  a  little  poet  who  calls  himself  a 
schoolboy.  I  send  you  the  first  stanza 
by  way  of  specimen. 

To  William  Cowper,  of  the  Inner 
Temple,  Esq.  of  his  poems  in  the  second 
volume. 

*  In  what  high  strains,  my  Muse,  wilt  thou 
Attempt  great  Cowper's  worth  to  show  % 
Pindaric  strains  shall  tune  the  lyre, 

And  'twould  require 

A  Pindar's  fire 
To  sing  great  Cowper's  worth, 
The  lofty  bard,  delightful  sage. 
Ever  the  wonder  of  the  age. 
And  blessing  to  the  earth.' 

**  Adieu,  my  precious  cousin,  your 
lofty  bard  and  delightful  sage  expects 
you  with  all  possible  affection." 

But  we  are  getting  now,  indeed  have 
already  got,  so  far  as  some  of  the 
letters  I  have  been  quoting  are  con- 
cerned, into  the  Weston  TJnderwood 
period  of  the  poet's  life,  where  he  is  at 
his  happiest  and  best,  enjoying  his 
success  and  fame,  and  the  many  friend- 
ships, both  old,  re-opened  and  new  dis- 
covered, which  his  fame  brought  him, 
busy  at  his  Homer  with  a  fixed 
quantity  to  translate  every  day,  so 
that  he  always  writes  in  "Homer 
hurry," — a  kind  of  hurry  which  some- 
how produces  the  most  lazy,  delight- 
ful letters — occupied  and  amused,  in 
fact,  in  such  a  fashion  that  his  melan- 
choly found  no  loophole  to  get  in  by 
till  Homer  was  finished  and  despatched, 
Mrs.  TJnwin  aging  every  day  and  often 
suffering,  and  only  the  uncongenial 
task  of  editing  Milton  was  there  to 
save  him  from  himself.  We  will  not 
follow  him  there,  except  in  sympathy ; 
indeed,  after  a  very  few  more  speci- 
mens of  his  "divine  chit-chat,"  as 
Coleridge  called  it,  we  must  take  our 
leave  of  him  altogether,  and  bring  this 
paper  to  an  end.  I  have  given  one  speci- 
men of  his  story-telling  powers.  Here 
is  another,  this  time  to  Mrs.  Throck- 


morton,  the  wife  of    the    Squire    of 
Weston  TJnderwood : 

My  Dear  Mrs.  Frog,— You  have  by  this 
time  (I  presume)  heard  from  the  Doctor, 
whom  I  desired  to  present  to  you  our  best 
affections,  and  to    tell  you  that   we  are 
well.    He  sent  an  urchin  (I  do  not  mean 
a  hedgehog,  commonly  called  an  urchin 
in  old  times,  but  a  boy,  commonly  so  called 
at  present),  expecting  that  he  would  find 
you  at  Bucklands,  whither  he  supposed 
you  gone  on  Thursday.      He  sent  him 
charged  with  divers  articles,  and  among 
others  with  letters,  or,   at  least,   with  a 
letter  :  which  I  mention  that,  if  the  boy 
should   be    lost    together    with  his  de- 
spatches, past  all  possibility  of  recovery, 
you  may  yet  know  that  the  Doctor  stands 
acquitted  of   not  writing.       That  he  is 
utterly  lost  (that  is  to  say,  the  boy,  for  the 
Doctor  being  the  last  antecedent,  as  the 
grammarians  say,   you   might    otherwise 
suppose  that  he  was  intended)  is  the  more 
probable,  because  he  was  never  four  miles 
Irom  his  home  before,  having  only  tra- 
velled at  the  side  of  a  plough-team  :  and 
when  the  Doctor  gave  him  his  direction 
to  Bucklands,  he  asked,  very  naturally,  if 
that  place  was  in  England.     So  what  has 
become  of  him  Heaven  knows  !     I  do  not . 
know  that  any  adventures  have  presented 
themselves  since  your    departure    worth 
mentioning,  except  that  the  rabbit  that 
infested  your  Wilderness  has  been  shot  for 
devouring  your  carnations  ;  and  that  I 
myself  have  been  in  some  danger  of  being 
devoured  in  like  manner  by  a  great  dog, 
namely,   Pearson's.      But  I  wrote  him  a 
letter  on  Friday  informing  him  that  unless 
he  tied  up  his  great  mastiff  in  the  daytime, 
I  would  send  him  a  worse  thing,   com- 
monly called  and  known  by  the  name  of 
an  attorney.    When  I  go  forth  to  ramble 
in  the   fields  I   do  not  sally,  like  Don 
Quixote,  with  a  puipose  of  encountering 
monsters,  if  any  such  can  be  found :  but 
am   a  peaceable  poor  gentleman,  and  a 
poet,  who  means  nobody  any  harm,  the 
fox  hunters  and  the  two  Universities  ot 
this  land  excepted.     I  cannot  learn  from 
any  creature  whether  the  Turnpike  Bill  is 
alive  or  dead  :  so  ignorant  am  I,  and  by 
such   ignoramuses  surrounded.    But  if  I 
know  little  else,  this  at  least  I  know,  that 
I  love  you  and  Mr.  Frog  :  that  I  long  for 
your  return,  and  that  I   am,    with   Mrs. 
Un win's  best  affections,  Ever  yours,  W.  C. 

I  am  afraid  I  am  showing  the  mag- 
nificent disregard  of  considerations  of 
space  of  which  I  spoke  just  now,  but 


74 


Cowper's  Letters, 


the  temptation  to  give  this  letter  in 
full  was  too^  great;  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me  so  perfectly  easy  and 
charming,  and  it  gives  a  delightful 
glimpse  into  the  happiness  of  those 
early  days  at  Weston  and  the  pleasant 
intimacy  that  existed  between  the 
Lodge  and  the  Hall.  The  Lodge 
wrote  complimentary  verses  to  the 
Hall,  and  the  Hall  (in  the  person  of 
Mrs.  Throckmorton  and  her  Roman 
Catholic  chaplain,  the  Padre  of  whom 
Cowper  got  very  fond),  transcribed  the 
Lodge's  translation  of  Homer ;  Cow- 
per and  Mrs.  Unwin  dined  constantly 
with  the  "Frogs"  and  the  "Frogs'' 
occasionally  with  them,  and  altogether 
life  seems  to  have  passed  very 
agreeably.  Poor  Cowper  got  into 
trouble  for  it  with  Mr.  Newton,  who 
did  not  like  Koman  Catholics,  and  kept 
a  careful  watch  over  his  flock ;  but  the 
poet  could  stand  on  his  dignity  when 
he  pleased,  and  he  would  not  give  up 
his  new  friends  ;  and  as  the  Padre  did 
not  apparently  even  attempt  a  con- 
version, no  harm  came  of  it. 

The  two  most  important  of  the 
friendships  Cowper  made  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  were  those  with 
Hayley,  who  was  afterwards  his  bio- 
grapher, and  with  his  young  cousin 
John  Johnson,  who  took  charge  of  him 
during  his  melancholy  closing  years, 
and  proved  himself  in  every  way  un- 
wearying in  his  devotion.  He  was  a 
Cambridge  undergraduate  when  his 
cousin  first  made  his  acquaintance,  and 
his  high  spirits  and  good  nature  made 
Cowper  take  to  him  at  once.  The 
poet  liked  to  get  him  to  Weston  for 
his  vacations,  and  he  seems  to  have 
brightened  everybody  up  when  he 
stayed  there.  The  letters  to  him  are 
nearly  always  bright  and  cheerful. 
Here  is  one  of  the  last  of  the  really 
happy  ones.    It  is  headed  **  lo  Psean  !  " 

My  Dearest  Johnny, — Even  as  you 
foretold,  so  it  came  to  pass.  On  Tuesday 
I  received  your  letter,  and  on  Tuesday 
came  the  pheasants  :  for  which  I  am  in- 
debted in  many  thanks,  as  well  as  Mrs. 
Unwin,  both  to  your  kindness,  and  to 
your  kind  friend  Mr.  Copeman. 


In  Copeman's  ear  this  truth  let  Echo  tell, — 
Immortal  bards  like  mortal  pheasants  welL 
And  when  his  clerkship's  out,  I  wish  him 

herds 
Of  golden  clients  for  his  golden  birds. 

Our  friends  the  Courtenays  have 
never  dined  with  us  since  their  marriage, 
became  we  have  never  asked  them  :  and 
we  have  never  asked  them  because  poor 
Mrs.  Unwin  is  not  so  equal  to  the  task  of 
providing  for  and  entertaining  company  as 
before  this  last  illness.  But  this  is  no 
objection  to  the  arrival  here  of  a  bustard  : 
rather  it  is  a  cause  for  which  we  shall  be 
particularly  glad  to  see  the  monster.  It 
will  be  a  handsome  present  to  them.  So 
let  the  bustard  come,  as  the  Lord  Mayor 
of  London  said  to  the  hare,  when  he  was 
hunting, — *  Let  her  come,  a'  God's  name,  I 
am  not  afraid  of  her.'  Adieu  my  dear 
cousin  and  caterer — My  eyes  terribly  bad, 
else  I  had  much  more  to  say  to  you." 

Not  very  long  after  this  letter  was 
written,  Mrs.  Unwin's  health  of  body 
and  mind  entirely  broke  down,  and 
her  affection,  which  had  so  long  been 
the  greatest  of  blessings  to  Cowper, 
became  all  at  once  the  very  reverse, 
for  she  insisted  on  his  spending  his 
days  in  her  room,  reading  to  her  and 
writing  for  her — occupations  which  had 
always  tried  him ;  and  as  she  could 
hardly  speak,  and  he  was  thrown  in 
this  way  entirely  on  her  society,  he 
naturally  relapsed  into  the  old  melan- 
choly. Lady  Hesketh  found  him  in 
1794  in  a  terrible  state  of  insanity, 
refusing  food,  walking  incessantly  up 
and  down  his  room,  filled  with  the 
most  awful  imaginations.  Then  they 
took  him  to  Norfolk  in  the  next  year 
and  unhappily  he  lived  on  till  April 
25th,  1800.  The  despair  lasted  up  to 
the  moment  of  death ;  but  it  is  con- 
soling, as  well  as  curious,  to  know, 
that  from  that  moment  "the  expression 
with  which  his  countenance  settled 
was  that  of  calmness  and  composure, 
mingled,  as  it  were,  with  holy  sur- 
prise." And  certainly,  as  Southey 
says,  **  never  was  there  a  burial  at 
which  the  mourners  might,  with  more 
sincerity  of  feeling,  give  their  hearty 
thanks  to  Almighty  God,  that  it  had 
pleased  Him  to  deliver  the  departed 


Gowpers-  Letters, 


\ 
75 


\ 


out    of    the    miseries   of    this   sinful 
world." 

Cowper*s  letters  are  so  perfectly 
easy  and  simple  and  sincere  that  we  can 
enjoy  them  in  whatever  mood  we  may 
happen  to  be,  just  as  we  can  always 
enjoy  Guy  Ma/nnering  or  Emma.  And 
we  enjoy  them  simply  for  their  own 
sake.  Half  the  interest  of  Lord 
Chesterfield's  letters  lies  in  what  may 
be  called  his  philosophy  of  life ;  Horace 
Walpole  is  at  least  as  important  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  student  of 
social  and  political  history  as  from  that 
of  the  lover  of  letters,  and  Gray  too 
has  a  great  deal  to  tell  us  which  would 
be  interesting  and  important  in  a 
book.  The  great  merit  of  Cowper  in 
this  line  is  that  he  is  not  a  philosopher, 
or  a  politician,  or  a  scholar,  but  simply 
and  solely  a  writer  of  letters.  He  has 
no  extraneous  claims  on  our  interest, 


and  indeed  he  became  one  of  the  best, 
if  not  the  very  best,  of  English  letter- 
writers  by  simply  not  trying  to  become 
anything  else.  No  one  but  Gray,  and 
perhaps  Lamb,  has  anything  like  his 
delicacy  of  style  and  humour,  and 
Gray,  at  any  rate,  is  not  generally 
so  spontaneous  as  Cowper.  Never 
were  letters  written  with  less  idea  of 
publication.  He  destroyed  all  he 
received,  and  asked  his  correspondents 
to  do  the  same  with  his.  The  letters 
would  never  have  been  published  but 
for  the  success  of  the  poems  ;  but  it  is 
possible  that  there  are  many  people 
now  who  are  tempted  to  renew  their 
forgotten  acquaintance  with  Cowper  as 
a  poet  by  learning  from  his  letters  how 
delightful  he  was  as  a  man. 

J.  C.  Bailey. 


\ 


76 


PHILANTHROPY    AND    THE    POOR-LAW. 


"  Can  any  charity  come  out  of  a 
Board  of  Guardians?"  is  a  question 
likely  to  rouse  as  much  scorn  as  a 
parallel  question  about  Nazareth. 
Guardians  have  never  escaped  the 
reproaches  levelled  at  them  in  Oliver 
Twist.  Public  opinion  condemns  them 
as  the  hard  and  official  protectors  of 
"Bumble,"  and  by  Mr.  Booth's 
preachers  the  Poor-liw  is  often  made 
matter  for  scorn.  The  Report  of  the 
Whitechapel  Guardians  just  published 
makes  therefore  strange  reading.  Its 
table  of  contents  shows  that  the 
Guardians,  in  addition  to  their 
ordinary  administration  of  the  In- 
firmary and  Workhouse,  deal  with 
Rescue  Work,  Children's  Country 
Holidays,  Emigration,  Foreign  Im- 
migration, Protection  of  Children,  and 
Winter  Distress.  It  will  be  seen 
that  their  work  is  such  as  cannot  be 
left  out  of  consideration  in  any  scheme 
for  helping  the  poor,  and  it  l-aises  the 
question  whether  the  Poor-Law  must 
not  be  the  foundation  on  which  any 
such  scheme  is  based. 

With  regard,  for  example,  to  Rescue 
Work,  there  is  no  Shelter  in  London 
so  large  as  that  afforded  by  the  Work- 
house. It  is  here  that  women  come 
when  the  Shelters  raised  by  some  wave 
of  passing  emotion  fail.  It  is  here 
at  some  period  or  other  of  their  lives 
that  the  greater  number  of  the  poor 
fallen  men  and  women  seek  refuge. 
On  this  subject  the  Guardians  say : 
'*  Those  who  best  know  the  East  End 
of  London,  best  know  how  patiently 
and  successfully  the  organised  work 
of  social  rescue  has  been  through  long 
years  carried  on,  and  how  unjust  it 
would  be  now  to  measure  its  results 
by  the  extent  to  which  they  are 
publicly  paraded,  or  to  assume  that  the 
degraded  and  miserable  are  submerged 
and  uncared  for.     In  this  connection 


it  may  be  stated  that  in  the  White- 
chapel Workhouse,  the  efforts  of  the 
matron  alone  during  the  past  year 
have  resulted  in  placing  upon  their 
feet,  and  introducing  into  respectable 
service,  forty-three  female  paupers. 
This  fact  needs  no  comment,  while  it 
is  to  be  observed  that  it  is  additional 
to  the  excellent  work  carried  on  by  the 
lady  visitors."  This  fact,  which  needs 
no  comment,  and  the  other  fact  as  to 
the  co-operation  of  the  lady  visitors, 
show  that  there  is  a  steady  direction 
of  friendly  effort  against  the  inroads 
of  vice.  No  agency  in  this  field  can 
claim  great  success.  It  seems  as  if  it 
needed  all  the  love  and  all  the  time  of 
one  woman  to  raise  one  other  woman. 
No  system  is  successful,  and  many 
systems  absorb  liiuch  thought  and 
money  merely  to  keep  them  going. 
The  Guardians  have  rooms,  agents, 
nurses  and  doctors ;  they  have  a 
machinery  which  is  always  in  order 
and  always  at  work.  Alongside  of 
this  machinery  they  have  the  service 
of  devoted  women  who  visit  the  wards, 
make  friends  of  the  women,  and  send 
them  out  to  work  with  the  memory  of 
a  love  which  is  both  strong  and  kind. 
Vice  is  vice,  and  that  pity  which  has 
in  it  no  element  of  indignation  will 
not  really  touch  the  wrong-doer.  A 
weak  spot  in  much  of  the  Rescue 
Work  is  its  tendency  to  substitute 
pity  for  mercy,  and  to  treat  the  sinner 
so  as  to  make  her  minimise  her  sin. 
They  who  thus  work  may  attract 
large  numbers  to  their  Shelters  :  they 
do  catch  sometimes  the  feebler 
natures ;  but  they  alienate  the 
stronger,  who  want  sympathy  in  their 
own  self-condemnation  as  much  as 
they  want  it  in  their  aspirations  after 
a  better  life.  The  Guardians,  who 
offer  on  the  one  hand  the  discipline  of 
the    House,    and    on   the    other    the 


Philanthropy  aiid  the  Poor-Law. 


77 


service  of  a  friend,  have  a  charity 
which  is  more  like  His  who  on 
occasions  could  be  angry  and  who 
sternly  taught  that  for  every  idle 
word  an  account  would  be  required. 

Children's  Country  Holidays  is 
almost  the  latest  pet  object  df  the 
charitable.  Good  ladies  have  funds 
called  after  their  own  names,  and  they 
rival  one  another  in  their  efforts  to 
give  poor  children  a  fortnight's  fresh 
air.  The  Guardians  have  not  lagged 
behind  in  this  forward  movement,  and 
they  have  sent  a  party  of  children 
from  their  schools  to  enjoy  holidays  in 
the  homes  of  cottagers  living  in  the 
open  country.  In  their  necessarily 
formal  language  they  speak  of  **  the 
physical,  mental  and  moral  advantage 
to  be  derived  from  the  fortnight's 
stay,"  but  it  is  easy  to  imagine  some- 
thing of  what  lies  behind  that 
language.  How  the  child  prim  and 
proper,  drilled  and  clean,  stiff  from  the 
great  district  school  at  Forest  Gate, 
must  have  revelled  in  the  freedom  of 
cottage  life !  How  interesting  must 
have  been  the  ways  of  the  family,  how 
awakening  the  varied  sights ;  how 
the  mind  and  heart  must  have  re- 
sponded to  new  calls ;  how  many 
memories  must  have  been  left  to 
influence  in  after  years  the  choice  for 
a  country  life  as  against  a  life  in 
town !  The  Guardians  who  gave 
this  "  physical,  mental  and  moral 
advantage"  are  certainly  not  to  be 
omitted  in  a  list  of  charitable 
agencies. 

Emigration  is  another  object  under- 
taken by  rival  Societies  which  in  the 
Report  receives  quiet  and  reasonable 
notice.  In  a  short  paragraph  it  is 
stated  that  with  the  consent  of  the 
High  Commissioner  such  and  such 
persons  have  been  settled  in  Canada, 
and  reports  follow  showing  that 
previous  emigrants  are  doing  well. 
The  charity  of  the  act  is  as  the 
charity  of  the  rival  Societies.  Miss 
A.  and  Mr.  B.,  who  advertise  their 
work  and  collect  large  subscriptions, 
have  done  no  more  than  the  Guardians 
of  Whitechapel  have  done;  but  it  is 


questionable  if  any  of  the  voluntary 
Societies  could  give  so  adequate  and 
complete  a  record  of  each  individual 
emigrated.  There  is  an  obvious 
danger  in  this  sort  of  charity.  It  is 
so  easy  to  take  the  unknown  for  the 
successful,  and  to  think  that  because 
the  poor  are  out  of  sight,  they  are 
therefore  out  of  need.  The  sanguine 
and  impatient  temper  of  the  philan- 
thropist is  hardly  to  be  trusted  in  a 
matter  where  results  are  so  far  out  of 
reach,  and  his  supporters  are  too  glad 
to  hear  of  success  to  make  any 
enquiries.  The  calm  and  official  notice 
of  the  Guardians  may  therefore  be 
even  a  better  guarantee  of  the  charity 
which  considereth  the  poor  than  the 
warm  and  glowing  generalities  of 
charitable  agencies.  Service  "  with  a 
quiet  mind "  is  the  service  often 
wanted  in  those  who  serve  the  poor. 

Foreign  Immigration  is  a  matter 
which  is  now  rousing  heated  feeling. 
In  the  name  of  charity  it  has  been 
urged  that,  **This  is  the  agency  which 
reduces  the  price  of  labour  below  its 
fair  level,  which  renders  effective 
combination  among  the  sweated 
classes  impossible,  and  which  drives 
many  Englishmen  from  their  own 
country  to  seek  a  livelihood  in  some 
distant  land,  so  that  while  foreign 
paupers  are  landing  every  day  on 
these  shores.  Englishmen  are  being 
forced  out  to  make  room  for  them." 
And  in  the  name  of  the  same  charity 
the  feelings  of  the  poor  have  been 
roused  against  the  foreigner  whose 
habits  are  different  and  whose  poverty 
absorbs  benevolence.  Sometimes  it  is 
almost  made  to  seem  as  if  the  one 
thing  necessary  to  raise  the  poor  of 
East  London  was  the  exclusion  of  the 
foreigner.  The  Whitechapel  Guardians 
have  gone  into  the  matter  and,  in  the 
spirit  of  the  Scientific  Charity  in- 
augurated by  Mr.  Charles  Booth,  have 
looked  at  facts.  It  has  been  found 
that  three-fourths  of  the  Jews  in 
England  are  in  London,  and  two- 
thirds  of  this  number  in  Whitechapel, 
and  that  in  Whitechapel  only  thir- 
teen per  cent,  of  the  population   are 


78 


Philanthropy  and  the  Poor-Law, 


aliens.  Further,  it  has  been  found 
that  of  the  seven  hundred  and  eighty- 
eight  indoor  paupers  only  eight  are 
tailors,  nineteen  shoemakers,  and  four 
cabinet-makers, — the  trades  chiefly 
affected  by  alien  immigrants.  "  The 
statistics,"  says  the  Report,  *'of 
pauperism  within  the  Whitechapel 
Union  do  not  enable  us  to  affirm  with 
any  positiveness  that  the  burdens  of 
the  ratepayers  have  to  any  material 
extent  been  increased  by  the  incursion 
of  foreign  poor  into  the  district." 
Here  are  two  voices.  The  voice  of 
Charity  calls  us  to  shut  out  the  naked 
and  the  hungry  and  the  stranger;  it 
makes  his  destitution  a  charge,  and 
works  on  the  selfishness  of  his  fellow- 
workmen  to  oppress  him  still  further. 
The  voice  of  Officialism  says,  "  The 
poor  foreigner  is  not  the  plague  you 
think  him  to  be ;  he  does  not  steal  as 
you  think  he  steals ;  he  is  at  any  rate 
a  man,  and  he  can  be  raised.  Go  on 
calmly.  Deal  with  him  as  with  your 
own  fellow-citizens  and  raise  his 
standard  of  living."  Surely  there  is 
some  confusion  in  these  voices,  and  it 
is  Charity  which  speaks  in  the  name 
of  Officialism. 

One  of  the  saddest  of  modern  reve- 
lations is  the  cruelty  which  children 
endure  at  the  hands  of  their  parents. 
It  is  a  national  disgrace  that  it  should 
be  necessary  to  found  a  National 
Society  for  preventing  cruelty  to  child- 
ren. Under  the  banner  of  that 
Society,  ardent  men  and  women  have 
been  enlisted,  and  as  yet  their  zeal 
seems  to  have  given  few  signs  of  flag- 
ging or  of  extravagance.  The  Guard- 
ians by  their  works  deserve  also  to  be 
enrolled  among  the  protectors  of  child- 
ren. They  have  done  the  duty  effec- 
tively. A  recent  Act  of  Parliament 
gives  them  power  to  adopt  a  child 
deserted  by  its  parents  and  to  keep  it, 
if  a  boy  until  the  age  of  sixteen,  and 
if  a  girl  until  the  age  of  eighteen. 
The  Whitechapel  Guardians  have  dur- 
ing the  year  used  the  power  so  as  to 
take  twenty-seven  children  under  their 
care.  These  twenty-seven  children 
drawn    from     the    common     lodging- 


houses  and  furnished  rooms  which  are 
the  disgrace  of  a  small  area  in  the 
Whitechapel  Union,  may  be  boarded 
out  in  country  cottages,  where  under 
the  care  of  some  motherly  woman  they 
will  be  trained  in  loving  and  in  enjoy- 
ing. The  process  in  its  first  stages  is 
so  protected  that  there  can  be  no 
abuses  either  ^through  the  over-eager- 
ness of  the  charitable  or  the  change- 
ableness  of  the  poor.  There  can  be  no 
writs  of  Habeas  Corpus  to  put  an  end 
to  good  work  or  to  shake  men's  faith 
in  the  honest  intentions  of  the  philan- 
thropist. In  its  latter  stages  the 
supervision  is  no  less  sustained  and 
careful.  The  adopted  child  will  not, 
because  its  first  friends  are  too  busy  or 
have  died,  become  a  slave-servant  or 
be  allowed  to  begin  life  unbefriended. 
The  Guardians  have  a  machinery 
which  reaches  far,  and  having  put  a 
heart  into  the  machine  they  are  able 
to  do  effectively  that  which  charity 
tries  and  often  fails  to  do. 

The  winter  distress  brought  into 
operation  a  new  army  of  helpers.  The 
tale  of  their  campaign  has  been  written 
in  glowing  language,  and  the  world 
which  has  heard  the  tale  has  been  at 
once  shocked  by  the  evidence  of  dis- 
tress and  comforted  by  the  thought 
that  at  least  something  has  been  done. 
Whitechapel  has  naturally  been  ground 
chosen  for  the  operations  of  the  army 
of  helpers.  Its  reputation,  the  pre- 
sence in  its  midst  of  so  many  who  are 
wretched  and  destitute,  has  led  to  the 
establishment  of  many  shelters,  work- 
shops and  mission  rooms.  Within  the 
radius  of  one  quarter  of  a  mile  there 
are,  it  is  said,  no  less  than  fifty  centres 
of  charitable  work.  Among  the  re- 
sources available  for  dealing  with 
Winter  Distress  the  Guardians  are 
rarely  counted,  but  this  Report  shows 
that  they  are  not  only  familiar  with 
the  condition  of  the  district,  but  also 
that  they  have  thoughtfully  dealt  with 
its  distress.  They  tell  how,  addressing 
the  District  Board  of  Works,  they  ex- 
pressed readiness  to  co-operate  in  the 
direction  of  "Recommending  for  em- 
ployment those   who  from  their  pre- 


Philanthropy  and  the  Poor-Law. 


79 


vious  circumstances  and  conditions  it 
is  most  desirable  should  not  be  placed 
under  the  necessity  of  receiving  relief 
at  the  cost  of  the  rates.  At  the  same 
time,  the  Guardians  disavowed  any 
desire  or  intention  to  ask  the  District 
Board  to  do  more  than  aid  them  in 
dealing  with  the  front  rank  of  resident 
heads  of  families,  of  good  character, 
whose  homes  are  worth  preserving  and 
therefore  the  conditions  precedent  to 
a  recommendation  to  the  District 
Board  would  be  an  honest,  industrious 
character,  a  willingness  to  work,  a 
bond  fide  residence  in  the  district  of  at 
least  six  months,  and  the  possession  of 
a  decent  home."  The  language  is  not 
the  language  of  charitable  reports ;  but 
those  who  recognise  that  the  best  re- 
lief is  that  which  considers  the  poor 
and  respects  the  desire  to  work  rather 
than  to  beg, — a  desire  which  is  not 
dead  in  any  one — will  acknowledge 
that  the  methods  of  the  Guardians  are 
inspired  by  the  spirit  of  true  charity. 
This  enquiry  into  circumstances,  this 
steady  offer  of  help  to  those  who  them- 
selves have  made  an  effort,  has  been 
going  on  regularly ;  and  the  Guardians, 
like  the  Cardinal  in  Browning's  play, 
reflecting  on  the  various  spasmodic  at- 
tempts to  suddenly  right  what  is 
wrong,  may  say,  "We  have  known 
four  and  twenty  leaders  of  revolt." 
Probably  if  the  Cardinal  and  they 
could  speak  their  minds,  they  would 
say  that  it  is  these  "  revolts,"  these 
sudden  attempts  by  means  of  Mansion 
House  Funds,  Salvation  Army  schemes, 
and  rival  charities,  which  hinder  the 
operation  of  methods  founded  on  know- 
ledge and  carried  out  with  regularity. 
At  the  same  time,  as  may  be  gathered 
from  the  tables  and  statistics  at  the 
end  of  the  Report,  the  Guardians  wel- 
come the  co-operation  of  charitable 
workers.  One  table  tells  how  two 
hundred  and  forty-five  families  have 
been  assisted  by  ways  and  means  not 
at  the  disposal  of  the  Guardians. 
Many  have  received  grants  of  money, 
large  or  small,  with  which  to  buy 
tools  or  get  clear  of  debt ;  many  have 
received   pensions,    many    have   been 


found  situations.  Another  table  tells 
how  the  service  of  ladies  has  been  en- 
listed to  befriend  girls  who  have  been 
placed  out  in  the  world.  A  few  dry 
figures  and  a  few  short  sentences  tell 
the  history  of  thirty-five  girls  under 
twenty  years  of  age.  Those  who  know 
the  facts  know  how  much  lies  behind 
these  short  sentences,  the  many  visits 
and  the  hearty  sympathy  which  enables 
for  instance  the  lady  who  visited  J.  S. 
to  say  she  "  has  been  nearly  four  years 
in  this  her  first  place  and  doing  vpry 
well, — is  stronger  than  she  was,  but  still 
requires  much  care."  If  in  many  cases 
the  ladies'  report  is  sad,  while  the 
first  thought  of  the  reader  must  be 
"  How  refreshing  to  get  truthfulness," 
the  second  must  be  a  reflection  on  the 
system  of  big  schools  which  costing 
the  Guardians  about  thirteen  shillings 
a  week  for  each  child  sends  out  thirty- 
five  girls  of  whom  only  four  can  be 
said  to  be  doing  "  very  satisfactorily  " 
and  only  eleven  "satisfactorily." 
Large  Charity  Schools  give  other  re- 
turns of  their  own  work,  but  their  re- 
turns have  not  to  be  submitted  to  the 
impartial  scrutiny  of  officials. 

The  Whitechapel  Guardians  do  not 
in  the  present  Report  dwell  at  length 
upon  what  they  have  done  and  are 
doing  in  the  ordinary  administration 
of  the  Poor-Law  Relief.  It  is  only  be- 
tween the  lines  that  it  can  be  read 
how  they  have  practically  abolished 
out-relief,  substituting  for  the  neces- 
sarily hard  hand  of  the  Relieving 
officer,  the  soft  touch  of  the  charitable 
visitor,  how  they  have  made  the  In- 
firmary a  rival  to  the  Hospital  by 
efficient  nursing  and  pleasant  sur- 
roundings, and  how  the  workhouse  is 
in  fact  an  Industrial  School  wherein  a 
man  or  woman  may,  if  they  will,  learn 
what  is  useful.  At  the  same  time  the 
language  of  the  Report  is  such  that  no 
one  reading  it  will  think  that  all  is 
done  that  is  possible.  Their  work  is  in 
the  Guardians'  estimation  far  from 
perfect.  Some  changes  are  wanted  in 
the  law.  Their  buildings  being  old- 
fashioned  require  constant  alteration, 
and   for  want    of    adequate    support 


80 


Philanthropy  and  the  Pocyr-Law. 


their  efforts  have  somewhat  the  nature 
of  experiments.  In  almost  every  para- 
graph it  is  possible  to  read  an  appeal 
for  help  directed  to  those  whose  will 
to  help  the  poor  is  strong  enough  to 
endure  control. 

The  union  of  voluntary  and  official 
charity  is  the  striking  feature  in  the 
system  of  the  Whitechapel  Guardians. 
In  this  union  there  seems  to  be  equal 
gain  to  each.  It  is  a  marriage  in 
which  each  supplies  what  the  other 
lacks.  Voluntary  charity  gains  "  back- 
bone/' it  becomes  strong  and  regular. 
Official  charity  gains  delicacy  of  touch, 
the  power  of  adapting  itself  to  indi- 
vidual needs. 

If  the  union  were  complete,  if  all 
the  force  of  voluntary  charity  now 
thrown  into  Whitechapel  were  brought 
into  union  with  the  official  charity  of 
the  Guardians,  it  is  possible  that  the 
dreams  of  some  reformers  would  be 
realised.  Then  it  might  be  that  relief 
^vould  go  to  those  whom  relief  would 
help,  and  punishment  to  those  whom 
punishnient  would  help.  Then  it 
might  be  that  those  who  are  helped 
and   those   who   are   punished  should 


alike  feel  the-  friendship  of  a  fellow- 
man  or  a  fellow-woman  willing  to 
share  their  sorrow  and  their  hope. 
Then  it  might  be  that  the  Workhouse 
would  cease  to  be  a  degradation,  and 
be  deterrent  only  by  being  educational. 
The  Report  of  the  Whitechapel  Guard- 
ians shows  that  the  official  administra- 
tion is  strong,  and  that  it  is  willing 
to  accept  the  co-operation  of  voluntary 
charity.  Other  reports  show  that 
voluntary  charity  is  also  strong.  With 
whom  does  it  lie  to  make  the  union 
between  them  complete  % 

A  Board  of  Guardians  has  admitted 
people  of  good  will  into  its  counsels, 
it  has  adopted  a  policy  framed  in  con- 
sideration for  the  needs  of  the  poor, 
and  it  has  welcomed  the  help  of  those 
who  love  the  poor.  If  charity  will 
submit  to  be  restrained  by  experience, 
to  surrender  will-worship  and  to  work 
within  limits;  if  charity  will  be  regular 
and  give  up  short  cuts  to  large  ends  ; 
if  charity  will  be  content  to  drop  its 
party  watch-words  and  work  under  a 
common  flag,  then  it  may  be  that 
help  which  is  both  human  and  strong 
will  be  brought  to  raise  the  poor. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


DECEMBER,  1891. 


A  FIRST  FAMILY   OF  TASAJARA. 


BY    BRET'HABTE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Readers  of  The  Clarion  will  have 
noticed  that  allusion  has  been  fre- 
quently made  in  these  columns  to 
certain  rumours  concerning  the  early 
history  of  Tasajara  which  were 
supposed  to  affect  the  pioneer  record 
of  Daniel  Harcourt.  It  was  deemed 
by  the  conductors  of  this  journal  to  be 
only  consistent  with  the  fearless  and 
independent  duty  undertaken  by  TJie 
Gla/rion  that  these  rumours  should  be 
fully  chronicled  as  part  of  the  informa- 
tion required  by  the  readers  of  a  first- 
class  newspaper,  unbiassed  by  any 
consideration  of  the  social  position  of 
the  parties,  but  simply  as  a  matter 
of  news.  For  this  The  Clarion  does 
not  deem  it  necessary  to  utter  a  word 
of  apology.  But  for  that  editorial 
comment  or  attitude  which  the  pro- 
prietors felt  was  justified  by  the 
reliable  sources  of  their  information 
they  now  consider  it  only  due  in  hon- 
our to  themselves,  their  readers,  and 
Mr.  Harcourt  to  fully  and  freely 
apologise.  A  patient  and  laborious  in- 
vestigation enables  them  to  state  that 
the  alleged  facts  published  by  TJte 
Cla/rion  and  copied  by  other  journals 
are  utterly  unsupported  by  testimony, 
and  the  charges — although  more  or  less 
vague — which  were  based  upon  them 
are  equally  untenable.  We  are  now 
satisfied  that  one  *  Elijah  Curtis,*  a 
former  pioneer  of  Tasajara  who 
disappeared  five  years   ago,    and  was 

No.  386. — VOL.  Lxv. 


supposed  to  be  drowned,  has  not  only 
made  no  claim  to  the  Tasajara  property, 
as  alleged,  but  has  given  no  sign  of  his 
equally  alleged  resuscitation  aud 
present  existence,  and  that  on  the 
minutest  investigation  there  appears 
nothing  either  in  his  disappearance,  or 
the  transfer  of  his  property  to  Daniel 
Harcourt,  that  could  in  any  way 
disturb  the  uncontested  title  to  Tasa- 
jara or  the  unimpeachable  character 
of  its  present  owner.  The  whole 
story  now  seems  to  have  been  the 
outcome  of  one  of  those  stupid  rural 
hoaxes  too  common  in  California." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ash  wood  laying 
aside  The  Clarion  with  a  sceptical 
shrug  of  her  pretty  shoulders,  as  she 
glanced  up  at  her  brother.  "  I  sup- 
pose this  means  that  you  are  going 
to  propose  again  to  the  young  lady  ? " 

"  I  have,"  said  Jack  Shipley;  "  that's 
the  worst  of  it — and  got  my  answer 
before  this  came  out." 

"  Jack !  "  said  Mrs.  Ashwood, 
thoroughly  surprised, 

**  Yes  !  You  see,  Conny,  as  I  told 
you  three  weeks  ago,  she  said  she 
wanted  time  to  consider — that  she 
scarcely  knew  me,  and  all  that !  Well, 
I  thought  it  wasn't  exactly  a  gentle- 
man's business  to  seem  to  staud  off 
after  that  last  attack  on  her  father, 
and  so,  last  week,  I  went  down  to  San 
Jose  where  she  was  staying  and 
begged  her  not  to  keep  me  in  suspense. 
And,  by  Jove !  she  froze  me  with  a  look  . 


82 


A  FiHt  Family  of  Tcbsajara. 


and  said  that  with  these  aspersions  ou 
her  father's  character,  she  preferred 
not   to    be   under   obligations  to  any 


manliness   and    good    taste    of     your 
illustrations      will     not     be     thrown 


a 


one. 


)) 


**  And  you  believed  her  1 " 

"  Oh  hang  it  all !  Look  here,  Conny — 
I  wish  you'd  just  try  for  once  to  find 
out  some  good  in  that  family,  besides 
what  that  sentimental  young  widower 
John  Milton  may  have.  You  seem  to 
think  because  they've  quarrelled  with 
him  there  isn't  a  virtue  left  among 
them." 

Far  from  seeming  to  offer  any 
suggestion  of  feminine  retaliation,  Mrs. 
Ashwood  smiled  sweetly.  "  My  dear 
Jack,  I  have  no  desire  to  keep  you 
from  trying  your  luck  again  with  Miss 
Clementina,  if  that's  what  you  mean, 
and  indeed  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if 
a  family  who  felt  a  mesalliance  as 
sensitively  as  the  Harcourts  felt  that 
affair  of  their  son's,  would  be  as  keenly 
alive  to  the  advantages  of  a  good 
match  for  their  daughter.  As  to 
young  Mr.  Harcourt,  he  never  talked 
to  me  of  the  vices  of  his  family,  nor 
has  he  lately  troubled  me  much  with 
the  presence  of  his  own  virtues.  I 
haven't  heard  from  him  since  we  came 
here." 

"I  suppose  he  is  satisfied  with  the 
Government  berth  you  got  for  him," 
returned  her  brother  drily. 

"  He  was  very  grateful  to  Senator 
Flynn,  who  appreciates  his  talents, — 
but  who  offered  it  to  hi  jo.  as  a  mere 
question  of  fitness,"  replied  Mrs. 
Ashwood  with  great  precision  of  state- 
ment. "  But  you  don't  seem  to  know 
he  declined  it  on  account  of  his  other 
work." 

"  Preferred  his  old  Bohemian  ways, 
eh  1  You  cau't  change  those  fellows, 
Conny.  Tbey  can't  get  over  the 
fascinations  of  vagabondage.  Sorry 
your  lady-patroness  scheme  didn't 
work.  Pity  you  couldn't  have  pro- 
moted him  in  the  line  of  his  profession, 
as  the  Grand  Duchess  of  Girolstein  did 
Fritz." 

"For  Heaven's  sake.  Jack,  go  to 
Clementina !  You  may  not  be  successful, 
but  there  at  least  the  perfect  gentle: 


away. 

"  I  think  of  going  to  San  Francisco 
to-morrow  anyway,"  returned  Jack 
with  affected  carelessness.  "I'm 
getting  rather  bored  with  this  wild 
seaside  watering-place  and  its  glitter 
of  ocean  and  hopeless  background  of 
mountain.  It's  nothing  to  me  that 
*  there's  no  land  nearer  than  Japan ' 
out  there.  It  may  be  very  healthful 
to  the  tissues  but  it's  weariness  to  the 
spirit,  and  I  don't  see  why  we  can't 
wait  at  San  Francisco  till  the  rains 
send  us  further  south,  as  well  as  here." 

He  had  walked  to  the  balcony  of 
their  sitting-room  in  the  little  seaside 
hotel  where  this  conversation  took 
place,  and  gazed  discontentedly  over  the 
curving  bay  and  sandy  shore  before 
him.  After  a  slight  pause  Mrs. 
Ashwood  stepped  out  beside  him. 

"  Very  likely  I  may  go  with  you,* 
she    said   with  a  perceptible  tone   of 
weariness.     "  We   will   see   after  the 
post  arrives." 

"  By  the  way,  there  is  a  little  package 
for  you  in  my  room  that  came  this 
morning.  I  brought  it  up,  but  forgot 
to  give  it  to  you.  You'll  find  it  on 
my  table." 

Mrs.  Ashwood  abstractedly  turned 
away  and  entered  her  brother's  room 
from  the  same  balcony.  The  forgotten 
parcel,  which  looked  like  a  roll  of 
manuscript,  was  lying  on  his  dressing- 
table.  She  gazed  attentively  at  the 
handwriting  on  the  wrapper  and  then 
gave  a  quick  glance  around  her.  A 
sudden  and  subtle  change  came  over 
her.  She  neither  flushed  nor  paled,  nor 
did  the  delicate  lines  of  expression  in 
her  face  quiver  or  change.  But  as  she 
held  the  parcel  in  her  hand  her  whole 
being  seemed  to  undergo  some 
exquisite  suffusion.  As  the  medicines 
which  the  Arabian  physician  had  con- 
cealed in  the  hollow  handle  of  the 
mallet  permeated  the  languid  royal 
blood  of  Persia,  so  some  volatile  balm 
of  youth  seemed  to  flow  in  upon  her 
with  the  contact  of  that  strange  mis- 
sive and  transform  her  weary  spirit. 


J* 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


83 


"  Jack  !  "  she  called  in  a  high  clear 
voice. 

But  Jack  had  already  gone  from  the 
balcony,  when  she  reached  it  with  an 
elastic  step  and  a  quick  youthful 
swirl  and  rustling  of  her  skirt. 
He  was  lighting  his  cigar  in  the 
garden. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  leaning  half  over 
the  railing,  "come  back  here  in  an 
hour  and  we'll  talk  over  that  matter  of 
yours  again." 

Jack  looked  up  eagerly  and  as  if  he 
might  even  come  up  then,  but  she 
added  quickly,  "  In  about  an  hour — I 
must  think  it  over,"  and  withdrew. 

She  re-entered  the  sitting  room,  shut 
the  door  carefully  and  locked  it,  half 
pulled  down  the  bhnd,  walking  once 
or  twice  around  the  table  on  which  the 
parcel  lay,  with  one  eye  on  it  like  a 
graceful  cat.  Then  she  suddenly  sat 
down,  took  it  up  with  a  grave  practical 
face,  examined  the  postmark  curiously, 
and  opened  it  with  severe  deliberation. 
It  contained  a  manuscript  and  a  letter 
of  four  closely  written  pages.  She 
glanced  at  the  manuscript  with 
bright  approving  eyes,  ran  her  fingers 
through  its  leaves  and  then  laid  it 
carefully  and  somewhat  ostentatiously 
on  the  table  beside  her.  Then,  still 
holding  the  letter  in  her  hand,  she 
rose  and  glanced  out  of  the  window  at 
her  bored  brother  lounging  towards 
the  beach  and  at  the  heaving  billows 
beyond,  and  returned  to  her  seat. 
This  apparently  important  preliminary 
concluded,  she  began  to  read. 

There  were,  as  already  stated,  four 
blessed  pages  of  it !  All  vital,  earnest, 
palpitating  with  youthful  energy,  pre- 
posterous in  premises,  precipitate  in 
conclusions — yet  irresistible  and  con- 
vincing to  every  woman  in  their  illo- 
gical sincerity.  There  was  not  a  word 
of  love  in  it,  yet  every  page  breathed 
a  "wholesome  adoration  ;  there  was  not 
an  epithet  or  expression  that  a  greater 
prude  than  Mrs.  Ashwood  would  have 
objected  to,  yet  every  sentence  seemed 
to  end  in  a  caress.  There  was  nob  a 
line  of  poetry  in  it,  and  scarcely  a 
figure  or  simile,  and  yet  it  was  poetical. 


Boyishly  egotistic  as  it  was  in  atti- 
tude, it  seemed  to  be  written  less  of 
himself  than  to  her ;  in  its  delicate 
because  unconscious  flattery,  it  made 
her  at  once  the  provocation  and  excuse. 
And  yet  so  potent  was  its  individuality 
that  it  required  no  signature.  No 
one  but  John  Milton  Harcourt  could 
have  written  it.  His  personality  stood 
out  of  it  so  strongly  that  once  or 
twice  Mrs.  Ashwood  almost  unconsci- 
ously put  up  her  little  hand  before  her 
face  with  a  half  mischievous,  half 
deprecating  smile,  as  if  the  big  honest 
eyes  of  its  writer  were  upon  her. 

It  began  by  an  elaborate  apology 
for  declining  the  appointment  offered 
him  by  one  of  her  friends,  which  he 
was  bold  enough  to  think  had  been 
prompted  by  her  kind  heart.  That 
was  like  her,  but  yet  what  she  might 
do  to  any  one ;  and  he  preferred  to 
think  of  her  as  the  sweet  and  gentle 
lady  who  had  recognised  his  merit 
without  knowing  him,  rather  than  the 
powerful  and  gracious  benefactress 
who  wanted  to  reward  him  when  she 
did  know  him.  The  crown  that  she 
had  all  unconsciously  placed  upon  his 
head  that  afternoon  at  the  little  hotel 
at  Crystal  Spring  was  more  to  him 
than  the  Senator's  appointment ;  per- 
haps he  was  selfish,  buf  he  could  not 
bear  that  she  who  had  given  so  much 
should  believe  that  he  could  accept  a 
lesser  gift.  All  this  and  much  more  ! 
Some  of  it  he  had  wanted  to  say  to 
her  in  San  Francisco  at  times  when 
they  had  met,  but  he  could  not  find 
the  words.  But  she  had  given  him 
the  courage  to  go  on  and  do  the  only 
thing  he  was  tit  for,  and  he  had  re- 
solved to  stick  to  that,  and  perhaps  do 
something  once  more  that  might  make 
him  hear  again  her  voice  as  he  had 
heard  it  that  day,  and  again  see  the 
light  that  had  shone  in  her  eyes  as 
she  sat  there  and  read.  And  this 
was  why  he  was  sending  her  a  manu- 
script. She  might  have  forgotten  that 
she  had  told  him  a  strange  story  ot 
her  cousin  who  had  disappeared — 
which  she  thought  he  might  at  some 
time  work  up.      Here  it  was.     Per- 

G  2 


84 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


haps  she  might  not  recognise  it  again, 
in  the  way  he  had  written  it  here  ; 
perhaps  she  did  not  really  mean  it 
when  she  had  given  him  permission  to 
use  it — but  he  remembered  her  truth- 
ful eyes  and  believed  her — and  in  any 
event  it  was  hers  to  do  with  what  she 
liked.  It  had  been  a  great  pleasure 
for  him  to  write  it  and  think  that  she 
would  see  it;  it  was  like  seeing  her 
himself — that  was  in  his  better  self — 
more  worthy  the  companionship  of  a 
beautiful  and  noble  woman  than  the 
poor  young  man  she  would  have  helped. 
This  was  why  he  had  not  called  the 
week  before  she  went  away.  But  for 
all  that,  she  had  made  his  life  less 
lonely,  and  he  should  be  ever  grateful 
to  her.  He  could  never  forget  how 
she  unconsciously  sympathised  with 
him  that  day  over  the  loss  that  had 
blighted  his  life  for  ever, — yet  even 
then  he  did  not  know  that  she,  herself, 
had  passed  through  the  same  suffering. 
But  just  here  the  stricken  widow  of 
thirty,  after  a'  vain  attempt  to  keep 
up  the  knitted  gravity  of  her  eyebrows, 
bowed  her  dimpling  face  over  the 
letter  of  the  blighted  widower  of 
twenty,  and  laughed  so  long  and 
silently  that  the  tears  stood  out  like 
dew  on  her  light-brown  eyelashes. 

But  she  became  presently  severe 
again,  and  finished  her  reading  of  the 
letter  gravely.  Then  she  folded  it 
carefully,  deposited  it  in  a  box  on  her 
table  which  she  locked.  After  a  few 
minutes,  however,  she  unlocked  the 
box  again  and  transferred  the  letter 
to  her  pocket.  The  serenity  of  her 
features  did  not  relax  again  although 
her  previous  pretty  prepossession  of 
youthful  spirit  was  still  indicated  in 
her  movements.  Going  into  her  bed- 
room, she  reappeared  in  a  few  minutes 
with  a  light  cloak  thrown  over  her 
shoulders  and  a  white  -  trimmed 
broad-brimmed  hat.  Then  she  rolled 
up  the  manuscript  in  a  paper,  and 
called  her  French  maid.  As  she 
stood  there  awaiting  her  with  the  roll 
in  her  hand,  she  might  have  been  some 
young  girl  on  her  way  to  her  music 
lesson. 


"  If  my  brother  returns  before  I  do 
tell  him  to  wait." 

"  Madame  is  going — " 

"  Out,"  said  Mrs.  Ashwood  blithely, 
and  tripped  down  staii-s. 

She  made  her  way  directly  to  the 
shore  where  she  remembered  there  was 
a  group  of  rocks  affording  a  shelter 
from  the  north-west  trade  winds. 
It  was  reached  at  low  water  by  a 
narrow  ridge  of  sand,  and  here  she 
had  often  basked  in  the  sun  with  her 
book.  It  was  here  that  she  now  un- 
rolled John  Milton's  manuscript  and 
read. 

It  was  the  story  she  had  told  him, 
but  interpreted  by  his  poetry  and 
adorned  by  his  fancy  until  the  facts  as 
she  remembered  them  seemed  to  be  no 
longer  hers,  or  indeed  truths  at  all. 
She  had  always  believed  her  cousin's 
unhappy  temperament  to  have  been 
the  result  of  a  moral  and  physical 
idiosyncrasy — she  found  them  here  to 
be  the  effect  of  a  lifelong  and  hope- 
less passion  for  herself  !  The  ingenious 
John  Milton  had  given  a  poet's  pre- 
cocity to  the  youth  whom  she  had  only 
known  as  a  suspicious,  moody  boy, 
had  idealised  him  as  a  sensitive  but 
songless  Byron,  had  given  him  the 
added  infirmity  of  pulmonary  weak- 
ness, and  a  handkerchief  that  in  mo- 
ments of  great  excitement,  after  having 
been  hurriedly  pressed  to  his  pale  lips, 
was  withdrawn  "  with  a  crimson  stain." 
Opposed  to  this  interesting  figure — the 
more  striking  to  her  as  she  had  been 
hitherto  haunted  by  the  impression 
that  her  cousin  during  his  boyhood 
had  been  subject  to  facial  eruption  and 
boils — was  her  own  equally  idealised 
self.  Cruelly  kind  to  her  cousin  and 
gentle  with  his  weaknesses  while  calmly 
ignoring  their  cause,  leading  him  un- 
consciously step  by  step  in  his  fatal 
passion,  he  only  became  aware  by 
accident  that  she  nourished  an  ideal 
hero  in  the  person  of  a  hard,  proud, 
middle-aged  practical  man  of  the 
world — her  future  husband  I  At  this 
picture  of  the  late  Mr.  Ashwood,  who 
had  really  been  an  indistinctive  social 
bo7i   vivant,   his   amiable    relict  grew 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


85 


somewhat  hysterical.  The  discovery 
of  her  real  feelings  drove  the  consump- 
tive cousin  into  a  secret,  self-imposed 
exile  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  where 
he  hoped  to  find  a  grave.  But  the 
complete  and  sudden  change  of  life 
and  scene,  the  halm  of  the  wild  woods 
and  the  wholesome  barbarism  of 
nature,  wrought  a  magical  change  in 
his  physical  health  and  a  philosophical 
rest  in  his  mind.  He  married  the 
daughter  of  an  Indian  chief.  Years 
passed,  the  heroine — a  rich  and  still 
young  and  beautiful  widow — unwit- 
tingly sought  the  same  medicinal 
solitude.  Here  in  the  depth  of  the 
forest  she  encountered  her  former 
playmate ;  the  passion  which  he  had 
fondly  supposed  was  dead,  revived  in 
her  presence,  and  for  the  first  time 
she  learned  from  his  bearded  lips  the 
secret  of  his  passion.  Alas  !  not  slie 
alone  1  The  contiguous  forest  could 
not  be  bolted  out,  and  the  Indian  wife 
heard  all.  Recognising  the  situation 
with  aboriginal  directness  of  purpose, 
she  committed  suicide  in  the  fond 
belief  that  it  would  reunite  the  survi- 
vors. But  in  vain,  the  cousins  parted 
on  the  spot  to  meet  no  more. 

Even  Mrs.  Ashwood's  predilection 
for  the  youthful  writer  could  not  over- 
look the  fact  that  the  denoHment  was 
by  no  means  novel  nor  the  situation 
human,  but  yet  it  was  here  that  she 
was  most  interested  and  fascinated. 
The  description  of  the  forest  was  a 
description  of  the  wood  where  she  had 
first  met  Harcourt ; ,  the  charm  of  it 
returned,  until  she  almost  seemed  to 
again  inhale  its  balsamic  freshness  in 
the  pages  before  her.  Now,  as  then, 
her  youth  came  back  with  the  same 
longing  and  regiot.  But  more  be- 
wildering than  all,  it  was  herself  that 
moved  there,  painted  with  the  loving 
hand  of  the  narrator.  For  the  first 
time  she  experienced  the  delicious 
flattery  of  seeing  herself  as  only  a 
lover  could  see  her.  The  smallest 
detail  of  her  costume  was  suggested 
with  an  accuracy  that  pleasantly 
thrilled  her  feminine  sense.  The  gi*ace 
of  her  figure  slowly  moving  through 


the  shadow,  the  curves  of  her  arm  and 
the  delicacy  of  her  hand  that  held  the 
bridle  rein,  the  gentle  glow  of  her 
softly  rounded  cheek,  the  sweet 
mystery  of  her  veiled  eyes  and  fore- 
head, and  the  escaping  gold  of  her 
lovely  hair  beneath  her  hat  were  all  in 
turn  masterfully  touched  or  tenderly 
suggested.  And  when  to  this  was 
added  the  faint  perfume  of  her  nearer 
presence — the  scent  she  always  used, 
the  delicate  revelations  of  her  with- 
drawn gauntlet,  the  bracelet  clasping 
her  white  wrist,  and  at  last  the  thril- 
ling contact  of  her  soft  hand  on  his 
arm — she  put  down  the  manuscript 
and  blushed  like  a  very  girl.  Then 
she  started. 

A  shout  ! — his  voice  surely ! — and 
the  sound  of  oars  in  their  rowlocks. 

An  instant  revulsion  of  feeling  over- 
took her.  With  a  quick  movement 
she  instantly  hid  the  manuscript 
beneath  her  cloak  and  stood  up  erect 
and  indignant.  Not  twenty  yards 
away,  apparently  advancing  from  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  bay,  was  a  boat. 
It  contained  only  John  Milton  resting 
on  his  oars  and  scanning  the  group  of 
rocks  anxiously.  His  face,  which  was 
quite  strained  with  anxiety,  suddenly 
flushed  when  he  saw  her,  and  then  re- 
cognising the  unmistakable  significance 
of  her  look  and  attitude,  paled  once 
more.  He  bent  over  his  oars  again  ; 
a  few  strokes  brought  him  close  to 
the  rock. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  hesi- 
tatingly, as  he  turned  towards  her 
and  laid  aside  his  oars,  "  but — I 
thought — you  were — in  danger." 

She  glanced  quickly  round  her.  She 
had  forgotten  the  tide !  The  ledge 
between  her  and  the  shore  was  already 
a  foot  under  brown  sea-water.  Yet  if 
she  had  not  thought  that  it  would  have 
looked  ridiculous  she  would  have  leaped 
down  even  then  and  waded  ashore. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  said  coldly,  with 
the  air  of  one  to  whom  the  situation 
was  an  everyday  occurrence  ;  "  it's  only 
a  few  steps  and  a  slight  wetting — and 
my  brother  would  have  been  here  in  a 
moment  more." 


86 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


John  Milton's  frank  eyes  made  no 
secret  of  his  mortification.  "  I  ought 
not  to  have  disturbed  you,  I 
know,"  he  said  quickly  ',  "  I  had  no 
right.  But  I  was  on  the  other 
shore  opposite  and  I  saw  you  come 
down  here — that  is — " — he  blushed 
prodigiously — "  I  thought  it  might  he 
you — and  I  ventured — I — mean — 
won't  you  let  me  row  you  ashore  1 " 

There  seemed  to  be  no  reasonable 
excuse  for  refusing.  She  slipped 
quickly  into  the  boat  without  waiting 
for  his  helping  hand,  avoiding  that 
contact  which  only  a  moment  ago  she 
was  trying  to  recall. 

A  few  strokes  brought  them  ashore. 
He  continued  his  explanation  with  the 
hopeless  frankness  and  persistency  of 
youth  and  inexperience.  "  I  only  came 
here  the  day  before  yesterday.  I 
would  not  have  come,  but  Mr.  Fletcher, 
who  has  a  cottage  on  the  other  shore, 
sent  for  me  to  offer  me  my  old  place  on 
TJie  Cla/rion,  I  had  no  idea  of  intrud- 
ing upon  your  privacy  by  calling  here 
without  permission." 

Mrs.  Ashwood  had  resumed  her  con- 
ventional courtesy  without  however 
losing  her  feminine  desire  to  make  her 
companion  pay  for  the  agitation  he 
had  caused  her.  "  We  would  have 
been  always  pleased  to  see  you,"  she 
said  vaguely,  "  and  I  hope,  as  you  are 
here  now,  you  will  come  with  me  to 

the  hotel.     My  brother " 

But  he  still  retained  his  hold  of  the 
boat-rope  without  moving,  and  contin- 
ued, "  I  saw  you  yesterday,  through  the 
telescope,  sitting  in  your  balcony  ;  and 
later  at  night  I  think  it  was  your 
shadow  I  saw  near  the  blue  shaded 
lamp  in  the  sitting-room  by  the  win- 
dow— I  don't  mean  the  red  lamp  that 
you  have  in  your  own  room.  I 
watched  you  until  you  put  out  the  blue 
lamp  and  lit  the  red  one.  I  tell  you 
this  —  because  —  because  —  I  thought 
you  might  be  reading  a  manuscript  I 
sent  you.  At  least,"  he  smiled  faintly, 
"  I  liked  to  think  it  so." 

In  her  present  mood  this  struck  her 
only  as  persistent  and  somewhat  ego- 
tistical.    But  she  felt  herself  now  on 


ground   where  she   could    deal  firmly 
with  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  gravely.  "  I  got 
it  and  thank  you  very  much  for  it.  I 
intended  to  write  to  you." 

"  Don't,  "  he  said,  looking  at  her 
fixedly  ;  "  I  can  see  you  don't  like  it." 
"  On  the  contrary,"  she  said 
promptly,  "  I  think  it  beautifully 
written,  and  very  ingenious  in  plot 
and  situation.  Of  course  it  isn't  the 
story  I  told  you — I  didn't  expect  that, 
for  I'm  not  a  genius.  The  man  is  not 
at  all  like  my  cousin,  you  know,  and 
the  woman — well,  really  to  tell  the 
truth,  she  is  simply  inconceivable !  " 

"You  think  so?"  he  said  gravely. 
He  had  been  gazing  abstractedly  at 
some  shining  brown  sea-weed  in  the 
water  and  when  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
liers  they  seemed  to  have  caught  its 
colour. 

"  Think  so  1  I'm  positive !  There's 
no  such  a  woman,  she  isn't  human. 
But  let  us  walk  to  the  hotel." 

**  Thank  you,  but  I  must  go  back 
now." 

"  But  at  least  let  my  brother  thank 
you  for  taking  his  place — in  rescuing 
me.  It  was  so  thoughtful  in  you  to 
put  off  at  once  when  you  saw  I  was 
surrounded.  I  might  have  been  in 
great  danger." 

"  Please  don't  make  fun  of  me,  Mrs. 
Ashwood,"  he  said  with  a  faint  return 
of  his  boyish  smile.  "  You  know 
there  was  no  danger.  I  have  only  in- 
terrupted you  in  a  nap  or  a  reverie — 
and  I  can  see  now  that  you  evidently 
came  here  to  be  alone." 

Holding  the  manuscript  more 
closely  hidden  under  the  folds  of  her 
cloak  she  smiled  enigmatically.  "I 
think  I  did,  and  it  seems  that  the  tide 
thought  so  too,  and  acted  upon  it.  But 
you  will  come  up  to  the  hotel  with  me 
surely  ? " 

"No,  I  am  going  back  now." 
There  was  a  sudden  firmness  about  the 
young  fellow  which  she  had  never 
before  noticed.  This  was  evidently 
the  creature  who  had  married  in  spite 
of  his  family. 

"  Won't  you  come  back  long  enough 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


87 


to  take  your  manuscript  ?  I  will  point 
out  the  part  I  refer  to  and — we  will 
talk  it  over." 

"  There  is  no  necessity.  I  wrote  to 
you  that  you  might  keep  it ;  it  is 
yours ;  it  was  written  for  you  and 
none  other.  It  is  quite  enough  for  me 
to  know  that  you  were  good  enough  to 
read  it.  But  will  you  do  one  thing 
more  for  me  ?  Read  it  again  !  If  you 
find  anything  in  it  the  second  time  to 
change  your  views — if  you  find — " 

"  I  will  let  you  know,"  she  said 
quickly.  "  I  will  write  to  you  as  I 
intended." 

"  1^0,  1  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant 
that  if  you  found  the  woman  less  in- 
conceivable and  more  human,  don't 
write  to  me  but  put  your  red  lamp  in 
your  window  instead  of  the  blue  one. 
I  will  watch  for  it  and  see  it." 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  explain 
myself  much  better  with  simple  pen 
and  ink,"  she  said  drily,  "  and  it  will 
be  much  more  useful  to  you." 

He  lifted  his  hat  gravely,  shoved  off 
the  boat,  leaped  into  it,  and  before  she 
could  hold  out  her  hand  was  twenty 
feet  away.  She  turned  and  ran 
quickly  up  the  rocks.  When  she 
reached  the  hotel,  she  could  see  the  boat 
already  half  across  the  bay. 

Entering  her  sitting-room  she  found 
that  her  brother,  tired  of  waiting  for 
her,  had  driven  out.  Taking  the 
hidden  manuscript  from  her  cloak  she 
tossed  it  with  a  slight  gesture  of  im- 
patience on  the  table.  Then  she  sum- 
moned the  landlord. 

"  Is  there  a  town  across  the  bay  1 " 

"  No !  the  whole  mountain-side  be- 
longs to  Don  Diego  Fletcher.  He 
lives  away  back  in  the  coast  range 
at  Los  Gates,  but  he  has  a  cottage  and 
mill  on  the  beach." 

"  Don  Diego  Fletcher  —  Fletcher  ! 
Is  he  a  Spaniard  then  1 " 

"  Half  and  half  I  reckon  ;  he's  from 
the  lower  country,  I  believe." 

"Is he  here  often?" 

"  Not  much ;  he  has  mills  at  Los 
Ckttos,  wheat-ranches  at  Santa  Clara, 
and  owns  a  newspaper  in  'Frisco  !  But 
he'a  here  now.     There  were  lights  in 


his  house  last  night,  and   his   cutter 
lies  off  the  point." 

"  Could  you  get  a  small  package  and 
note  to  him? " 

"  Certainly  ;  it  is  only  a  row  across 
the  bay." 

"  Thank  you." 

Without  removing  her  hat  and 
cloak  she  sat  down  at  the  table  and 
began  a  letter  to  Don  Diego  Fletcher. 
She  begged  to  enclose  to  him  a  manu- 
script which  she  was  satisfied,  for  the 
interests  of  its  author,  was  better  in 
his  hands  than  hers.  It  had  been 
given  to  her  by  the  author,  Mr.  J.  M. 
Harcourt,  whom  she  understood  was 
engaged  on  Mr.  Fletcher's  paper,  The 
Clarion.  In  fact,  it  had  been  written 
at  /ler  suggestion,  and  from  an  incident 
in  real  life  of  which  she  was  cognizant. 
She  was  sorry  to  say  that  on  account  of 
some  very  foolish  criticism  of  her  own 
as  to  the /acts,  the  talented  young 
author  had  become  so  dissatisfied  with 
it  as  to  make  it  possible  that,  if  left  to 
himself,  this  very  charming  and  beau- 
tifully written  story  would  remain  un- 
published. As  an  admirer  of  Mr 
Harcourt' s  genius,  and  a  friend  of  his 
family,  she  felt  that  such  an  event 
would  be  deplorable,  and  she  therefore 
begged  to  leave  it  to  Mr.  Fletcher's 
delicacy  and  tact  to  arrange  with  the 
author  for  its  publication.  She  knew 
that  Mr.  Fletcher  had  only  to  read  it 
to  be  convinced  of  its  remarkable 
literary  merit,  and  she  again  would 
impress  upon  him  the  fact  that  her 
playful  and  thoughtless  criticism — 
which  was  personal  and  confidential — 
was  only  based  upon  the  circumstances 
that  the  author  had  really  made  a 
more  beautiful  and  touching  story 
than  the  poor  facts  which  she  had 
furnished  seemed  to  warrant.  She 
had  only  just  learnt  the  fortunate  cir- 
cumstance that  Mr.  Fletcher  was  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  hotel  where 
she  was  staying  with  her  brother. 

With  the  same  practical,  business- 
like directness,  but  perhaps  a  certain 
unbusiness-like  haste  superadded,  she 
rolled  up  the  manuscript  and  de- 
spatched it  with  the  letter. 


88 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


This  done,  however,  a  slight  reaction 
set  in,  and  having  taken  off  her  hat 
and  shawl,  she  dropped  listlessly  on  a 
chair  by  the  window,  but  as  suddenly 
rose  and  took  a  seat  in  the  darker 
part  of  the  room.  She  felt  that  she 
had  done  right — that  highest  but  most 
depressing  of  human  convictions  !  It 
was  entirely  for  his  good.  There  was 
no  reason  why  his  best  interests  should 
suffer  for  his  folly.  If  anybody  was 
to  suffer  it  was  she.  But  what  non- 
sense was  she  thinking  I  She  would 
write  to  him,  later  when  she  was  a 
little  cooler — as  she  had  said.  But 
then  he  had  distinctly  told  her,  and 
very  rudely  too,  that  he  didn't  want 
her  to  write.  Wanted  her  to  make 
signals  to  him — the  idiot !  and  prob- 
ably was  even  now  watching  her  with 
a  telescope.  It  was  really  too  pre- 
posterous ! 

The    result    was   that  her   brother 
found  her  on  his  return  in  a  somewhat 
uncertain  mood,  and,  as  a  counsellor, 
variable  and  conflicting  in  judgment. 
If   this   Clementina,   who   seemed    to 
have  the  family  qualities  of  obstinacy 
and  audacity,  really  cared  for  him,  she 
certainly   wouldn't  let  delicacy  stand 
in   the   way   of   letting   him  know  it 
— and  he  was  therefore  safe  to  wait  a 
little.     A  few  moments  later,  she  lan- 
guidly declared  that   she   was    afraid 
that  she  was   no   counsellor   in   such 
matters;    really  she  was  getting   too 
old  to  take  any  interest  in  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  she  never  had  been  a  match- 
maker !     By  the  way  now,  wasn't  it 
odd  that  this  neighbour,  that  rich  capi- 
talist across  the  bay,  should  be  called 
Fletcher,  and  "  James  Fletcher  "  too, 
for  Diego  meant  "James"  in  Spanish. 
Exactly     the     same     name    as    poor 
Cousin   Jim    who    disappeared.      Did 
he  remember  her  old  playmate  Jimi 
But   her  brother    thought   something 
else    was  a   deuced   sight   more   odd, 
namely,   that  this   same   Don    Diego 
Fletcher  was  said  to  be  very  sweet  on 
Clementina  now,  and  was   always   in 
her  company  at  the  Bamirezes.      And 
that,  with  this  Clarion  apology  on  the 
top  of  it,  looked  infernally  queer. 


Mrs.  Ashwood  felt  a  sudden  conster- 
nation. Here  had  she — Jack's  sister 
— just  been  taking  Jack's  probable 
rival  into  confidential  correspondence  I 
She  turned  upon  Jack  sharply  : 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  that  before  %  " 

"  I  did  tell  you,"  he  said  gloomily, 
"but  you  didn't  listen.  But  what 
difference  does  it  make  to  you  now  ?  " 

"None  whatever,"  said  Mrs.  Ash- 
wood calmly  as  she  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

Nevertheless  the  afternoon  passed 
wearily,  and  her  usual  ride  into  the 
upland  canon  did  not  reanimate  her. 
For  reasons  known  best  to  herself  she 
did  not  take  her  after  dinner  stroll 
along  the  shore  to  watch  the  outlying 
fog.  At  a  comparatively  early  hour, 
while  there  was  still  a  roseate  glow  in 
the  western  sky,  she  appeared  with 
grim  deliberation,  and  the  blue  lamp 
shade  in  her  hand,  and  placed  it  over 
the  lamp  which  she  lit  and  stood  on  her 
table  beside  the  window.  This  done 
she  sat  down  and  began  to  write  with 
bright-eyed  but  vicious  complacency. 

"  But  you  don't  want  that  light  and 
the  window,  Constance,"  said  Jack 
wonderingly. 

Mrs.  Ashwood  could  not  stand  the 
dreadful  twilight. 

"  But  take  away  your  lamp  and 
you'll  have  light  enough  from  the  sun- 
set," responded  Jack. 

That  was  just  what  she  didn't  want ! 
The  light  from  the  window  was  that 
horrid  vulgar  red  glow  which  she  hated. 
It  might  be  very  romantic  and  suit 
lovers  like  Jack,  but  as  she  had  some 
work  to  do,  she  wanted  the  blue  shade 
of  the  lamp  to  correct  that  dreadful 
glare. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

John  Milton  had  rowed  back  with- 
out lifting  his  eyes  to  Mrs.  Ashwood's 
receding  figure.  He  believed  that  he 
was  right  in  declining  her  invitation, 
although  he  had  a  miserable  feeling 
that  it  entailed  seeing  her  for  the  last 
time.  With  all  that  he  believed  was 
his  previous  experience  of  the  affec- 
tions, he  was  still  so  untutored  as  to 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


89 


be  confused  as  to  his  reasons  for  de- 
clining, or  his  right  to  have  been 
shocked  and  disappointed  at  her  man- 
ner. It  seemed  to  him  sufficiently 
plain  that  he  had  offended  the  most 
perfect  woman  he  had  ever  known 
without  knowing  more.  The  feeling 
he  had  for  her  was  none  the  less 
powerful  because,  in  his  great  simpli- 
city, it  was  vague  and  unformulated. 
And  it  was  a  part  of  this  strange  sim- 
plicity that  in  his  miserable  loneliness 
his  thoughts  turned  unconsciously  to 
his  dead  wife  for  sympathy  and  consola- 
tion. Loo  would  have  understood 
him  ! 

Mr.  Fletcher,  who  had  received  him 
on  his  arrival  with  singular  effusive- 
ness and  cordiality,  had  put  off  their 
final  arrangements  until  after  dinner, 
on  account  of  pressing  business.  It 
was  therefore  with  some  surprise  that 
an  hour  before  the  time  he  was  sum- 
moned to  Fletcher's  room.  He  was 
still  mord  surprised  to  find  him  sitting 
at  his  desk  from  which  a  number  of 
business  papers  and  letters  had  been 
hurriedly  thrust  aside  to  make  way 
for  a  manuscript.  A  single  glance 
at  it  was  enough  to  show  the  unhappy 
John  Milton  that  it  was  the  one  he 
had  sent  to  Mrs.  Ashwood.  The 
colour  fiushed  to  his  cheek  and  he  felt 
a  mist  before  his  eyes.  His  employer's 
face  on  the  contrary  was  quite  pale, 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  Harcourt 
with  a  singular  intensity.  His  voice 
too,  although  under  great  control,  was 
hard  and  strange. 

"  Read  that,"  he  said,  handing  the 
young  man  a  letter. 

The  colour  again  streamed  into  John 
Milton's  face  as  he  recognised  the 
hand  of  Mrs.  Ashwood,  and  remained 
there  while  he  read  it.  When  he  put 
it  down,  however,  he  raised  his  frank 
eyes  to  Fletcher's  and  said  with  a  cer- 
tain dignity  and  manliness:  **What 
she  says  is  the  truth,  sir.  But  it 
is  /  who  am  alone  at  fault.  This 
manuscript  is  merely  my  stupid 
idea  of  a  very  simple  story  she  was 
once  kind  enough  to  tell  me  when  we 
were  talking  of  strange  occurrences  in 


real  life,  which  she  thought  I  might 
some  time  make  use  of  in  my  work.  I 
tried  to  embellish  it,  and  failed. 
That's  all.  I  will  take  it  back — it 
was  written  only  for  her." 

There  was  such  an  irresistible  truth- 
fulness and  sincerity  in  his  voice  and 
manner,  that  any  idea  of  complicity 
with  the  sender  was  dismissed  from 
Fletcher's  mind.  As  Harcourt,  how- 
ever, extended  his  hand  for  the  manu- 
script Fletcher  interfered. 

"  You  forget  that  you  gave  it  to  her, 
and  she  has  sent  it  to  me.  If  /  don't 
keep  it,  it  can  be  returned  to  her  only. 
Now  may  I  ask  who  is  this  lady  who 
takes  such  an  interest  in  your  literary 
career  ?  Have  you  known  her  long  1 
Is  she  a  friend  of  your  family  1 " 

The  slight  sneer  that  accompanied 
his  question  restored  the  natural  colour 
to  the  young  man's  face  but  kindled 
his  eye  ominously. 

"No,"  he  said  briefly.  "I  met  her 
accidentally  about  two  months  ago  and 
as  accidentally  found  out  that  she  had 
taken  an  interest  in  one  of  the  first 
things  I  ever  wrote  for  your  paper.  She 
neither  knew  you  nor  me.  It  was 
then  that  she  told  me  this  story ;  she 
did  not  even  then  know  who  I  was, 
though  she  had  met  some  of  my  family. 
She  was  very  good  and  has  generously 
tried  to  help  me." 

Fletcher's  eyes  remained  fixed  upon 
him. 

"  But  this  tells  me  only  what  she  is, 
not  who  she  is." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  inquire  of 
her  brother,  Mr.  Shipley,"  said  Har- 
court curtly. 

"Shipley?" 

"  Yes ;  he  is  travelling  with  her  for 
his  health,  and  they  are  going  south 
when  the  rains  come.  They  are  wealthy 
Philadelphians  I  believe,  and — and  she 
is  a  widow." 

Fletcher  picked  up  her  note  and 
glanced  again  at  the  signature,  "  Con- 
stance Ashwood."  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  silence,  when  he  resumed  in 
quite  a  different  voice :  "It's  odd  I 
never  met  them  nor  they  me." 

As  he  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  a 


90 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


response,  John  Milton  said  simply : 
"  I  suppose  it's  because  they  have 
not  been  here  long,  and  are  somewhat 
reserved.*' 

Mr.  Fletcher  laid  aside  the  manu- 
script and  letter,  and  took  up  his  ap- 
parently suspended  work. 

"  When  you  see  this  Mrs. — Mrs. 
Ash  wood  again,  you  might  say " 

"  I  shall  not  see  her  again,"  inter- 
rupted John  Milton,  hastily. 

Mr.  Fletcher  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Very  well,"  he  said  with  a  peculiar 
smile,  "  I  will  write  to  her.  Now,  Mr. 
Harcourt,"  he  continued  with  a 
sudden  business  brevity,  "  if  you 
please,  we'll  drop  this  affair  and 
attend  to  the  matter  for  which  I  just 
summoned  you.  Since  yesterday  an 
important  contract  for  which  I  have 
been  waiting  is  concluded,  and  its  per- 
formance will  take  me  East  at  once. 
I  have  made  arrangements  that  you 
will  be  left  in  the  literary  charge  of 
The  Cla/rion.  It  is  only  a  fitting 
recompense  that  the  paper  owes  to  you 
and  your  father — to  whom  I  hope  to 
see  you  presently  reconciled.  But  we 
won't  discuss  that  now  !  As  my  affairs 
take  me  back  to  Los  Gatos  within  half 
an  hour,  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  dispense 
my  hospitality  in  person, — but  you 
will  dine  and  sleep  here  to-night. 
Good-bye.  As  you  go  out  will  you 
please  send  up  Mr.  Jackson  to  me  1 ' '  He 
nodded  briefly,  seemed  to  plunge 
instantly  into  his  papers  again,  and 
John  Milton  was  glad  to  withdraw. 

The  shock  he  had  felt  at  Mrs. 
Ash  wood's  frigid  disposition  of  his 
wishes  and  his  manuscript  had 
benumbed  him  to  any  enjoyment  or 
appreciation  of  the  change  in  his 
fortune.  He  wandered  out  of  the 
house  and  descended  to  the  beach  in  a 
dazed,  bewildered  way,  seeing  only  the 
words  of  her  letter  to  Fletcher  before 
him,  and  striving  to  grasp  some  other 
meaning  from  them  than  their  coldly 
practical  purport.  Perhaps  this  was 
her  cruel  revenge  for  his  telling  her  not 
to  write  to  him.  Could  she  not  have 
divined  it  was  only  his  fear  of  what 
she  might  say !   And  now  it  was  all 


over  !  She  had  washed  her  hands  of 
him  with  the  sending  of  that 
manuscript  and  letter,  and  he  would 
pass  out  of  her  memory  as  a  foolish, 
conceited  ingrate — perhaps  a  figure  as 
wearily  irritating  and  stupid  to  her  as 
the  cousin  she  had  known.  He 
mechanically  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
distant  hotel :  the  glow  was  still  in  the 
western  sky,  but  the  blue  lamp  was 
already  shining  in  the  window.  His 
cheek  flushed  quickly,  and  he  turned 
away  as  if  she  could  have  seen  his 
face.  Yes — she  despised  him,  and  that 
was  his  answer  ! 

When  he  returned,  Mr.  Fletcher  had 
gone.  He  dragged  through  a  dinner 
with  Mr.  Jackson,  Fletcher's  secretary, 
and  tried  to  realise  his  good  fortune  in 
listening  to  the  subordinate's  con- 
gratulations. "  But  I  thought,"  said 
Jackson,  "  you  had  slipped  up  on  your 
luck  to-day,  when  the  old  man  sent  for 
you.  He  was  quite  white  and  ready 
to  rip  out  about  something* that  had 
just  come  in.  I  suppose  it  was  one  of 
those  anonymous  things  against  your 
father — the  old  man's  dead  set  against 
'em  now."  But  John  Milton  heard  him 
vaguely,  and  presently  excused  himseli 
for  a  row  on  the  moonlit  bay. 

The  active  exertion,  with  intervals 
of  placid  drifting  along  the  land-locked 
shore,  somewhat  soothed  him.  The 
heaving  Pacific  beyond  was  partly 
hidden  in  a  low  creeping  fog,  but  the 
curving  bay  was  softly  radiant.  The 
rocks  whereon  she  sat  that  morning, 
the  hotel  where  she  was  now  quietly 
reading,  were  outlined  in  black  and 
silver.  In  this  dangerous  contiguity  it 
seemed  to  him  that  her  presence 
returned — not  the  woman  who  had 
met  him  so  coldly;  who  had  penned 
those  lines ;  the  woman  from  whom  he 
was  now  parting  for  ever,  but  the  blame- 
less ideal  he  had  worshipped  from  the 
first,  and  which  he  now  felt  could  never 
pass  out  of  his  life  again  !  He  recalled 
their  long  talks,  their  rarer  rides  and 
walks  in  the  city ;  her  quick  apprecia- 
tion and  ready  sympathy ;  her  pretty 
curiosity  and  half-maternal  considera- 
tion of  his  foolish  youthful  past ;  even 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


91 


the  playful  way  that  she  sometimes 
seemed  to  make  herself  younger  as  if 
to  better  understand  him.  Lingering 
at  times  in  the  shadow  of  the  headland, 
he  fancied  he  saw  the  delicate  nervous 
outlines  of  her  face  near  his  own 
again  ;  the  faint  shading  of  her  brown 
lashes,  the  soft  intelligence  of  her 
grey  eyes.  Drifting  idly  in  the  placid 
moonlight,  pulling  feverishly  across 
the  swell  of  the  channel,  or  lying  on 
his  oars  in  the  shallows  of  the  rocks, 
but  always  following  the  curves  of  the 
bay,  like  a  bird  circling  around  a  light- 
house, it  was  far  in  the  night  before 
he  at  last  dragged  his  boat  upon  the 
sand.  Then  he  turned  to  look  once 
more  at  her  distant  window.  He 
would  be  away  in  the  morning  and 
he  should  never  see  it  again  !  It  was 
very  late,  but  the  blue  light  seemed 
to  be  still  burning  unalterably  and 
inflexibly. 

But  even  as  he  gazed,  a  change 
came  over  it.  A  shadow  seemed  to 
pass  before  the  blind  ;  the  blue  shade 
was  lifted  ;  for  an  instant  he  could  see 
the  colourless  star-like  point  of  the 
light  itself  show  clearly.  It  was  over 
now  :  she  was  putting  out  the  lamp. 
Suddenly  he  held  his  breath  !  A  roseate 
glow  gradually  suffused  the  window 
like  a  burning  blush  ;  the  curtain  was 
drawn  aside,  and  the  red  lamp  shade 
gleamed  out  surely  and  steadily  into 
the  darkness. 

Transfigured  and  breathless  in  the 
moonlight,  John  Milton  gazed  on  it. 
It  seemed  to  him  the  dawn  of  Love  ! 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  winter  rains  had  come.  But 
so  plenteously  and  persistently,  and 
with  such  fateful  preparation  of  cir- 
cumstance, that  the  long-looked-for 
blessing  presently  became  a  wonder, 
an  anxiety,  and  at  last  a  slowly 
widening  terror.  Before  a  month  had 
passed  every  mountain,  stream,  and 
watercourse,  surcharged  with  the 
melted  snows  of  the  Sierras,  had  be- 
come a  great  tributary ;  every  tribu- 
tary a  great  river,  until,  pouring  their 


great  volume  into  the  engorged  chan- 
nels of  the  Americain  and  Sacramento 
rivers,  they  overleaped  their  banks 
and  became  as  one  vast  inland  sea. 
Even  to  a  country  already  familiar 
with  broad  and  striking  catastrophe, 
the  flood  was  a  phenomenal  one.  For 
days  the  sullen  overflow  lay  in  the 
valley  of  the  Sacramento,  enormous, 
silent,  currentless — except  where  the 
surplus  waters  rolled  through  Car- 
quinez  Straits,  San  Francisco  Bay,  and 
the  Golden  Gate,  and  reappeared  as 
the  vanished  Sacramento  River,  in  an 
outflowing  stream  of  fresh  and  turbid 
water  fifty  miles  at  sea. 

Across  the  vast  inland  expanse, 
brooded  over  by  a  leaden  sky,  leaden 
rain  fell,  dimpling  like  shot  the 
sluggish  pools  of  the  flood ;  a  cloudy 
chaos  of  fallen  trees,  drifting  barns 
and  outhouses,  waggons  and  agricul- 
tural implements  moved  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  waters,  or  circled  slowly 
around  the  outskirts  of  forests  that 
stood  ankle  deep  in  ooze  and  the 
current  which  in  serried  phalanx 
they  resisted  still.  As  night  fell 
these  forms  became  still  more  vague 
and  chaotic,  and  were  interspersed 
with  the  scattered  lanterns  and  flaming 
torches  of  relief -boats,  or  occasionally 
the  high  terraced  gleaming  windows 
of  the  great  steamboats  feeling  their 
way  along  the  lost  channel.  At  times 
the  opening  of  a  furnace-door  shot 
broad  bars  of  light  across  the  sluggish 
stream  and  into  the  branches  of  drip- 
ping and  drift-encumbered  trees;  at 
times  the  looming  smoke-stacks  sent 
out  a  pent-up  breath  of  sparks  that 
illuminated  the  inky  chaos  for  a 
moment,  and  then  fell  as  black  and 
dripping  rain.  Or  perhaps  a  hoarse 
shout  from  some  faintly  outlined  bulk 
on  either  side  brought  a  quick  re- 
sponse from  the  relief -boats,  and  the 
detaching  of  a  canoe  with  a  blazing 
pine-knot  in  its  bow  into  the  outer 
darkness. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
Lawrence  Grant,  from  the  deck  of  one 
of  the  larger  tugs,  sighted  what  had 
been  once  the  estuary  of  Sidon  Creek. 


92 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


The  leader  of  a  party  of  scientific 
observation  and  relief  he  had  kept  a 
tireless  watch  of  eighteen  hours,  keenly 
noticing  the  work  of  devastation,  the 
changes  in  the  channel,  the  prospects 
of  abatement,  and  the  danger  that 
still  threatened.  He  had  passed  down 
the  length  of  the  submerged  Sacra- 
mento valley,  through  the  Straits  of 
Carquinez,  and  was  now  steaming 
along  the  shores  of  the  upper  reaches 
of  San  Francisco  Bay.  Everywhere 
the  same  scene  of  desolation — vast 
stretches  of  tuh  land,  once  broken  up 
by  cultivation  and  dotted  with  dwell- 
ings, now  clearly  erased  on  that  watery 
chart ;  long  lines  of  symmetrical  per- 
spective, breaking  the  monotonous 
level,  showing  orchards  buried  in  the 
flood  ]  Indian  mounds  and  natural 
eminences  covered  with  cattle  or 
hastily  erected  camps ;  half  submerged 
houses,  whose  solitary  chimneys,  how- 
ever, still  gave  signs  of  an  undaunted 
life  within;  isolated  groups  of  trees, 
with  their  lower  branches  heavy  with 
the  unwholesome  fruit  of  the  flood,  in 
wisps  of  hay  and  straw,  rakes  and 
pitchforks,  or  pathetically  sheltering 
some  shivering  and  forgotten  house- 
hold pet.  But  everywhere  the  same 
dull,  expressionless,  placid  tranquillity 
of  destruction — a  horrible  levelling  of 
all  things  in  one  bland  smiling  equality 
of  surface,  beneath  which  agony, 
despair,  and  ruin  were  deeply  buried 
and  forgotten;  a  catastrophe  without 
convulsion — a  devastation  voiceless, 
passionless,  and  supine. 

The  boat  had  slowed  up  before  what 
seemed  to  be  a  collection  of  disarranged 
houses  with  the  current  flowing  be- 
tween lines  that  indicated  the  exist- 
ence of  thoroughfares  and  streets. 
Many  of  the  lighter  wooden  buildings 
were  huddled  together  on  the  street 
corners  with  their  gables  to  the  flow ; 
some  appeared  as  if  they  had  fallen  on 
their  knees,  and  others  lay  compla- 
cently on  their  sides,  like  the  houses 
of  a  child's  toy  village.  An  elevator 
still  lifted  itself  above  the  other  ware- 
houses; from  the  centre  of  an  enor- 
mous square  pond,  once  the  plaza,  still 


arose  a  **  Liberty  pole,"  or  flagstaff, 
which  now  supported  a  swinging 
lantern,  and  in  the  distance  appeared 
the  glittering  dome  of  some  pubUc 
building.  Grant  recognised  the  scene 
at  once.  It  was  all  that  was  left  of 
the  invincible  youth  of  Tasajara ! 

As  this  was  an  objective  point  of  the 
scheme  of  survey  and  relief  for  the 
district,  the  boat  was  made  fast  to  the 
second  story  of  one  of  the  warehouses. 
It  was  now  used  as  a  general  store  and 
dep6t,  and  bore  a  singular  resemblance 
in  its  interior  to  Harcourt's  grocery  at 
Sidon.  This  suggestion  was  the  more 
fatefuUy  indicated  by  the  fact  that 
half-a-dozen  men  were  seated  around  a 
stove  in  the  centre,  more  or  less  given 
up  to  a  kind  of  philosophical  and  lazy 
enjoyment  of  their  enforced  idleness. 
And  when  to  this  was  added  the  more 
surprising  coincidence  that  the  party 
consisted  of  Billings,  Peters,  and  Win- 
gate, — former  residents  of  Sidon  and 
first  citizens  of  Tasajara — the  resem- 
blance was  complete. 

They  were  ruined, — but  they  ac- 
cepted their  common  fate  with  a 
certain  Indian  stoicism  and  Western 
sense  of  humour  that  for  the  time  lifted 
them  above  the  vulgar  complacency  of 
their  former  fortunes.  There  was  a 
deep-seated,  if  coarse  and  irreverent, 
resignation  in  their  philosophy.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  calamity  it  had 
been  roughly  formulated  by  Billings 
in  the  statement  that  *'  it  wasn't  any- 
body's fault ;  there  was  nobody  to  kill, 
and  what  couldn't  be  reached  by  a 
Vigilance  Committee  there  was  no  use 
resolootin'  over."  When  the  Reverend 
Doctor  Pilsbury  had  suggested  an 
appeal  to  a  Higher  Power,  Peters  had 
replied  good  -  humouredly,  that  a 
**  Creator  who  could  fool  around  with 
them  in  that  style  was  above  being  in- 
terfered with  by  prayer."  At  first 
the  calamity  had  been  a  thing  to  fight 
against ;  then  it  became  a  practical  joke, 
the  stingof  which  waslost  inthevictims' 
power  of  endurance  and  assumed  ignor- 
ance of  its  purport.  There  was  some- 
thing almost  pathetic  in  their  attempts 
to  understand  its  peculiar  humour. 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara, 


93 


**  How  about  that  Europ-e-an  trip  o* 
yours,  Peters?"  said  Billiogs  medita- 
tively, from  the  depths  of  his  chair. 
**  Looks  as  if  those  Crowned  Heads 
over  there  would  have  to  wait  till  the 
water  goes  down  considerable  afore 
you  kin  trot  out  your  wife  and  darters 
before  'em  ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Peters,  "  it  rather 
pints  that  way ;  and  ez  far  ez  I  kin 
see,  Mame  Billings  ain't  goin'  to  no 
Saratoga,  neither,  this  year." 

"  Beckon  the  boys  won't  hang  about 
old  Harcourt's  Free  Library  to  see  the 
girls  home  from  lectures  and  singing- 
class  much  this  year,"  said  Wingate. 
**  Wonder  if  Harcourt  ever  thought  o' 
this  the  day  he  opened  it,  and  made 
that  rattlin'  speech  o'  his  about  the 
new  property  ?  Clark  says  everything 
built  on  that  made  ground  has  got  to 
go  after  the  water  falls.  Bough  on 
Harcourt  after  all  his  other  losses,  eh  ? 
He  oughter  have  closed  up  with 
that  scientific  chap.  Grant,  and 
married  him  to  Clementina  while  the 
big  boom  was  on " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Peters,  indicating 
Grant,  who  had  just  entered,  quietly. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  gentlemen,"  said 
Grant,  stepping  towards  the  group 
with  a  grave  but  perfectly  collected 
face;  "on  the  contrary,  I  am  very 
anxious  to  hear  all  the  news  of  Har- 
court's family.  I  left  for  New  York 
before  the  rainy  season,  and  have  only 
just  got  back." 

His  speech  and  manner  appeared  to 
be  so  much  in  keeping  with  the  pre- 
vailing grim  philosophy  that  Billings, 
after  a  glance  at  the  others,  went  on. 
"  Ef  you  left  afore  the  first  rains," 
said  he,  "  you  must  have  left 
only  the  steamer  ahead  of  Fletcher 
when  he  run  off  with  Clementina  Har- 
court, and  you  might  have  come  across 
them  on  their  wedding-trip  in  New 
York." 

Not  a  muscle  of  Grant's  face  changed 
under  their  eager  and  cruel  scrutiny. 
"  No,  I  didn't,"  he  returned  quietly. 
"  But  why  did  she  run  away  ?  Did 
the  father  object  to  Fletcher?     If  I 


remember  rightly  he  was  rich  and  a 
good  match." 

"  Yes,  but  I  reckon  the  old  man 
hadn't  quite  got  over  The  Cla/rion  abuse 
for  all  its  eating  humble  pie  and 
taking  back  its  yarns  of  him.  And 
maybe  he  might  have  thought  the 
engagement  rather  sudden.  They  say 
that  she'd  only  met  Fletcher  the  day 
afore  the  engagement." 

"That   be    d d,"    said    Peters, 

knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
startling  the  lazy  resignation  of  his 
neighbours  by  taking  his  feet  from  the 
stove  and  sitting  upright.  "  I  tell  ye, 
gentlemen,  I'm  sick  o'  this  sort  o'  hog- 
wash  that's  been  ladled  round  to  us. 
That  gal  Clementina  Harcourt  and 
that  feller  Fletcher  had  met  not  only 

once,  but  inany  times  afore yes  ! 

they  were  old  friends  if  it  comes  to 
that,  a  matter  of  six  years  ago." 

Grant's  eyes  were  fixed  eagerly  on 
the  speaker,  although  the  others 
scarcely  turned  their  heads. 

"  You  know,  gentlemen,"  said 
Peters,  "  I  never,  took  stock  in  this 
yer  story  of  the  drownin'  of  Lige 
Curtis.  Why  1  Well,  if  you  wanter 
know — in  my  opinion — there  never 
was  any  Lige  Curtis  !  " 

Billings  lifted  his  head  with  diffi- 
culty ;  Wingate  turned  his  face  to  the 
speaker. 

"  There  never  was  a  scrap  o'  paper 
ever  found  in  his  cabin  with  the  name 
o'  Lige  Curtis  on  it  ;  there  never 
was  any  inquiry  made  for  Lige 
Curtis  ;  there  never  was  any  sor- 
rowin'  friends  comin'  after  Lige 
Curtis.  For  why  ? — There  never  was 
any  Lige  Curtis.  The  man  who 
passed  himself  off  in  Sidon  under  that 
name — was  that  man  Fletcher.  That's 
how  he  knew  all  about  Harcourt's 
title  ;  that's  how  he  got  his  best  holt 
on  Harcourt.  And  he  did  it  all  to 
get  Clementina  Harcourt,  whom  the 
old  man  had  refused  to  him  in  Sidon." 

A  grunt  of  incredulity  passed  around 
the  circle.  Such  is  the  fate  of  histori- 
cal innovation  !  Only  Grant  listened 
attentively. 


94 


A  First  Family  of  Tasajara. 


"  Ye  ought  to  tell  that  yarn  to  John 
Milton,"  said  Wingate  ironically;  "  it's 
about  in  the  style  o*  them  stories  he 
slings  in  The  Clario7i" 

"  He'z  made  a  good  thing  outer  that 
job.  Wonder  what  he  gets  for  them  1 " 
sai<l  Peters. 

It  was  Billings'  time  to  rise,  and, 
under  the  influence  of  some  strong 
cynical  emotion,  to  even  rise  to  his 
feet.  **  Gets  for  'em  ! — gets  for  'em  ! 
I'll  tell  you  what  he  gets  for  'em ! 
It  beats  this  story  o'  Peters' — it  beats 
the  flood.  It  beats  me !  Ye  know 
that  boy,  gentlemen  ;  ye  know  how  he 
uster  lie  round  his  father's  store, 
reading  flapdoodle  stories  and  sich  1 
Ye  remember  how  I  uster  try  to 
give  him  good  examples  and  knock 
some  sense  into  him  ?  Ye  remember 
how,  after  his  father's  good  luck,  he 
spiled  all  his  own  chances,  and  ran  off 
with  his  father's  waiter  gal — all  on 
account  o'  them  flapdoodle  books  he 
read  1  Ye  remember  how  he  sashayed 
round  newspaper  offices  in  Frisco  until 


he  could  write  a  flapdoodle  story  him- 
self ?  Ye  wanter  know  what  he  gets 
for  'em  1  I'll  tell  you.  He  got  an  in- 
terduction  to  one  of  them  high-toned, 
high-falutin'  *  don't-touch-me '  rich 
widders  from  Philadelfy — that's  what 
he  gets  for  'em.  He  got  her  dead-set  on 
him  and  his  stories — that's  what  he 
gets  for  'em  !  He  got  her  to  put  him 
up  with  Fletcher  in  T/ie  Clcurion — 
that's  what  he  gets  for  'em.  Anddarn 
my  skin ! — ef  what  they  say  is  true, 
while  we  hard-working  men  are  sittin' 
here  like  drowned  rats — that  air  John 
Milton,  ez  never  did  a  stitch  o'  live 
work  like  me  'n'  yere ;  ez  never  did 
anythin'  but  spin  yarns  about  us  ez 
did  work,  is  now  *  gittin'  for  'em,' — 
what  1  Guess  !  Why,  he's  gittin'  the 
rich  widder  /lerself  and  ludf  a  million 
dollars  with  Iter  !  Gentlemen  !  lib'ty 
is  a  good  thing — but  thar's  some 
things  ye  gets  too  much  lib'ty  of  in  this 
county — and  that's  this  yer  Lib'ty  of 

THE  PRESS  ! 


THE     END. 


95 


WILLIAM  COBBETT. 


To  acquaint  oneself  properly  with 
the  works  of  Cobbett  is  no  child's 
play.  It  requires  some  money,  a  great 
deal  of  time,  still  more  patience,  and 
a  certain  freedom  from  superfineness. 
For  as  few  of  his  books  have  recently 
been  reprinted,  and  as  they  were  all 
very  popular  when  they  appeared,  it 
is  frequently  necessary  to  put  up  with 
copies  exhibiting  the  marks  of  that 
popularity  in  a  form  with  which  Cole- 
ridge and  Lamb  professed  to  be  de- 
lighted, but  to  which  I  own  that  I 
am  churl  enough  to  prefer  the  clean, 
fresh  leaves  of  even  the  most  modern 
reprint.  And  the  total  is  huge;  for 
Cobbett*s  industry  and  facility  of 
work  were  both  appalling,  and  while 
his  good  work  is  constantly  disfigured 
by  rubbish,  there  is  hardly  a  single 
parcel  of  his  rubbish  in  which  there 
is  not  good  work.  Of  the  seventy- 
four  articles  which  compose  his  biblio- 
graphy, some  of  the  most  portentous, 
such  as  the  State  Trials  (afterwards 
known  as  Howell's)  and  the Farliament- 
a/ry  Debates  (afterwards  known  as  Han- 
sard's), may  be  disregarded  as  simple 
compilation ;  and  it  is  scarcely  neces- 
sary for  any  one  to  read  the  thirty 
years  of  The  Register  through,  seeing 
that  almost  everything  in  it  that  is 
most  characteristic  reappeared  in  other 
forms.  But  this  leaves  a  formidable 
total.  The  Works  of  Peter  Porcupine, 
in  which  most  of  Cobbett' s  writings 
earlier  than  this  century  and  a  few 
later  are  collected,  fill  twelve  volumes 
of  fair  size.  The  only  other  collec- 
tion, the  Political  Works,  made  up  by 
his  sons  after  his  death  from  21ie  Regis- 
ter and  other  sources,  is  in  six  volumes, 
none  of  which  contains  less  than  five 
hundred,  while  one  contains  more  than 
eight  hundred  large  pages,  so  closely 
printed  that  each  represents  two  if 
not  three  of  the  usual  library  octavo. 


The  Rural  Rides  fill  two  stout  volumes 
in  the  last  edition ;  besides  which  there 
are  before  me  literally  dozens  of  mostly 
rather  grubby  volumes  of  every  size 
from  Tull's  Husbandry,  in  a  portly 
octavo,  to  the  Legacy  to  Labourers, 
about  as  big  as  a  lady's  card-case. 
If  a  man  be  virtuous  enough,  or  rash 
enough,  to  stray  further  into  anti- 
Cobbett  pamphlets  (of  which  I  once 
bought  an  extremely  grimy  bundle 
for  a  sovereign)  he  may  go  on  in  that 
path  almost  for  ever.  And  I  see  no 
rest  for  the  sole  of  his  foot  till  he  has 
read  through  the  whole  of  "  the  bloody 
old  Times ^^  or  "that  foolish  drab 
Anna  Brodie's  rubbish,"  as  Cobbett 
used  with  indifferent  geniality  to  call 
that  newspaper, — the  last  elegant  de- 
scription being  solely  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  become  aware  that  a  poor 
lady  of  the  name  was  a  shareholder. 

Let  it  be  added  that  this  vast  mass 
is  devoted  almost  impartially  to  as 
vast  a  number  of  subjects,  that  it 
displays  throughout  the  queerest  and 
(till  you  are  well  acquainted  with  it) 
the  most  incredible  mixture  of  sense 
and  nonsense,  folly  and  wit,  ignorance 
and  knowledge,  good  temper  and  bad 
blood,  sheer  egotism  and  sincere  de- 
sire to  benefit  the  country.  Cobbett 
will  write  upon  politics  and  upon 
economics,  upon  history  ecclesiastical 
and  civil,  upon  grammar,  cookery, 
gardening,  woodcraft,  standing  armies, 
population,  ice-houses,  and  almost 
every  other  conceivable  subject,  with 
the  same  undoubting  confidence  that 
he  is  and  must  be  right.  In  what 
plain  men  still  call  inconsistency 
there  never  was  his  equal.  He  was 
approaching  middle  life  when  he 
was  still  writing  cheerful  pamphlets 
and  tracts  with  such  titles  as  TJm 
Bloody  Buoy,  TJte  Cannibal's  Progress, 
and  so  on,  destined  to   hold  up  the 


96 


William   Gohhett, 


French  Revolution  to  the  horror  of 
mankind  ;  he  had  not  passed  middle 
life  when  he  discovered  that  the  said 
Revolution  was  only  a  natural  and 
necessary  consequence  of  the  same 
system  of  taxation  which  was  grinding 
down  England.  He  denied  stoutly 
that  he  was  anything  but  a  friend 
to  monarchical  government,  and  as- 
severated a  thousand  times  over  that 
he  had  not  the  slightest  wish  to 
deprive  landlords  or  any  one  else  of 
their  property.  Yet  for  the  last  twenty 
years  of  his  life  he  was  constantly 
holding  up  the  happy  state  of  those 
republicans  the  profligacy,  injustice, 
and  tyranny  of  whose  government  he 
had  earlier  denounced.  He  sometimes 
came  near,  if  he  did  not  openly  avow, 
the  "  hold-the-harvest "  doctrine ;  and 
he  deliberately  proposed  that  the 
national  creditor  should  be  defrauded 
of  his  interest,  and  therefore  practi- 
cally of  his  capital.  A  very  shrewd 
man  naturally,  and  by  no  means  an  ill- 
informed  one  in  some  ways,  there  was 
no  assertion  too  wildly  contradictory  of 
facts,  no  assumption  too  flagrantly  op- 
posed to  common  sense,  for  him  to  make 
when  he  had  an  argument  to  further 
or  a  craze  to  support.  **  My  opinion 
is,"  says  he  very  gravely,  "  that  Lin- 
colnshire alone  contains  more  of  those 
fine  buildings  [churches]  than  the  whole 
continent  of  Europe."  The  churches 
of  Lincolnshire  are  certainly  fine ;  but 
imagine  all  the  churches  of  even  the 
western  continent  of  Europe,  from 
the  abbey  of  Batalha  to  Cologne 
Cathedral,  and  from  Santa  Rosalia  to 
the  Folgoet,  crammed  and  crouching 
under  the  shadow  of  Boston  Stump  ! 
He  "  dare  say  that  Ely  probably  con- 
tained from  fifty  to  a  hundred  thou- 
sand people"  at  a  time  when  it  is  rather 
improbable  that  London  contained 
the  larger  number  of  the  two.  Only 
mention  Jews,  Scotchmen,  the  Na- 
tional Debt,  the  standing  army,  pen- 
sions, poetry,  tea,  potatoes,  larch  trees, 
and  a  great  many  other  things,  and 
Cobbett  becomes  a  mere,  though  a 
very  amusing,  maniac.  Let  him  meet 
in  one  of  his  peregrinations,  or  merely 


remember  in  the  course  of  a  book  or 
article,  some  magistrate  who  gave  a 
decision  unfavourable  to  him  twenty 
years  before,  some  lawyer  who  took  a 
side  against  him,  some  journalist  who 
opposed  his  pamphlets,  and  a  torrent 
of  half  humorous  but  wholly  vindic- 
tive Billingsgate  follows ;  while  if  the 
luckless  one  has  lost  his  estate,  or  in 
any  way  come  to  misfortune  mean- 
while, Cobbett  will  jeer  and  whoop  and 
triumph  over  him  like  an  Indian  squaw 
over  a  hostile  brave  at  the  stake. 
Mixed  with  all  this  you  shall  find 
such  plain  shrewd  common  sense,  such 
an  incomparable  power  of  clear  expo- 
sition of  any  subject  that  the  writer 
himself  understands,  such  homely  but 
genuine  humour,  such  untiring  energy, 
and  such  a  hearty  desire  for  the  com- 
fort of  everybody  who  is  not  a  Jew 
or  a  jobber  or  a  tax-eater,  as  few 
public  writers  have  ever  displayed. 
And  (which  is  the  most  important 
thing  for  us)  you  shall  also  find  sense 
and  nonsense  alike,  rancorous  and 
mischievous  diatribes  as  well  as  sober 
discourses,  politics  as  well  as  trade- 
pufEery  (for  Cobbett  puffed  his  own 
wares  unblushingly),  all  set  forth  in 
such  a  style  as  not  more  than  two 
other  Englishmen,  whose  names  are 
Defoe  and  Bunyan,  can  equaL 

Like  theirs  it  is  a  style  wholly 
natural  and  unstudied.  It  is  often 
said,  and  he  himself  confesses,  that 
as  a  young  man  he  gave  his  days  and 
nights  to  the  reading  of  Swift.  But 
except  in  the  absence  of  adornment, 
and  the  uncompromising  plainness  of 
speech,  there  is  really  very  little  re- 
semblance between  them,  and  what 
there  is  is  chiefly  due  to  Cobbett*s  fol- 
lowing of  the  Drapier^s  Letters,  where 
Swift,  admirable  as  he  is,  is  clearly 
using  a  falsetto.  For  one  thing,  the 
main  characteristic  of  Swift — the  per- 
petual, unforced,  unflagging  irony  which 
is  the  blood  and  the  life  of  his  style — 
is  utterly  absent  from  Cobbett.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  Cobbett  imitated 
little,  he  was  imitated  much.  Al- 
though his  accounts  of  the  circulation 
of  his  works  are  doubtless  exaggerated 


William  Cohhett. 


97 


as  he  exaggerated  everything  con- 
nected with  himself,  it  was  certainly 
very  large ;  and  though  they  were  no 
doubt  less  read  by  the  literary  than 
by  the  non-literary  class,  they  have 
left  traces  everywhere.  As  a  whole 
Cobbett  is  not  imitable ;  the  very 
reasons  which  gave  him  the  style  for- 
bade another  to  borrow  it.  But  cer- 
tain tricks  of  his  reappear  in  places 
both  likely  and  unlikely ;  and  since  I 
have  been  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
him  I  think  I  can  see  the  ancestry  of 
some  of  the  mannerisms  of  two 
writers  whose  filiation  had  hitherto 
puzzled  me — Peacock  and  Borrow.  In 
the  latter  case  there  is  no  doubt  what- 
ever ;  indeed  the  kinship  between 
Borrow  and  Cobbett  is  very  strong  in 
many  ways.  Even  in  the  former 
I  do  not  think  there  is  much 
doubt,  though  Peacock's  thorough 
scholarship  and  Cobbett' s  boister- 
ous unscholarliness  make  it  one 
of  thought  rather  than  of  form, 
and  of  a  small  part  of  thought 
only. 

He  has  left  an  agreeable  and  often 
quoted  account  of  bis  own  early  life  in 
an  autobiographic  fragment  written  to 
confound  his  enemies  in  America. 
He  was  born  on  March  9th,  1762,^  at 
Farnham ;  and  the  chief  of  his  in- 
terests during  his  life  centred  round 
the  counties  of  Hampshire  and  Surrey, 
with  Berkshire  and  Wiltshire  thrown 
in  as  benefiting  by  neighbourhood. 
His  father  was  a  small  farmer,  not 
quite  uneducated,  but  not  much  in 
means  or  rank  above  a  labourer,  and 
all  the  family  were  brought  up  to 
work  hard.  After  some  unimportant 
vicissitudes,  William  ran  away  to 
London  and,  attempting  quill-driving 
in  an  attorney's  office  for  a  time,  soon 
got  tired  of  it  and  enlisted  in  a  march- 
ing regiment  which  was  sent  to  Nova 
Scotia.  This  was  in  the  spring  of 
1784.  As  he  was  steady,  intelligent, 
and  not  uneducated,  he  very  soon  rose 
from   the    ranks,   and   was   sergeant- 

^  Cobbett  himself  says  1766,  and  the  dates 
in  the  fragment  are  all  adjusted  to  tliis  ;  but 
biography  says  1762. 

No.  386. — VOL.  Lxv. 


major  for  some  years.  During  his 
service  with  the  colours  he  made 
acquaintance  with  his  future  wife  (a 
gunner's  daughter  of  the  literal  and 
amiable  kind),  and  with  Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald.  The  regiment  came 
home  in  1792,  and  Cobbett  got  his 
discharge,  married  his  beloved,  and 
went  to  France.  Unfortunately  he 
had  other  reasons  besides  love  and  a 
desire  to  learn  French  for  quitting 
British  shores.  He  had  discovered, 
or  imagined,  that*  some  of  his  officers 
were  guilty  of  malversation  of  regi- 
mental money  :  he  abused  his  position 
as  sergeant-major  to  take  secret  copies 
of  regimental  documents ;  and  when 
he  had  got  his  discharge  he  lodged  his 
accusation.  A  court-martial  was 
granted.  When  it  met,  however, 
there  was  no  accuser,  for  Cobbett  had 
gone  to  France.  Long  afterwards^ 
when  the  facts  were  cast  up  against 
him,  he  attempted  a  defence.  The 
matter  is  one  of  considerable  intricacies 
and  of  no  great  moment.  Against 
Cobbett  it  may  be  said  to  be  one  of 
the  facts  which  prove  (what  indeed 
hardly  needs  proving),  that  he  was 
not  a  man  of  any  chivalrous  delicacy 
of  feeling,  and  did  not  see  that  in  no 
circumstances  can  it  be  justifiable  to 
bring  accusations  of  disgraceful  con- 
duct against  others  and  then  run 
away.  In  his  favour  it  may  be  said 
that,  though  not  a  very  young  man, 
he  was  not  in  the  least  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  was  no  doubt  sincerely 
surprised  and  horrified  to  find  that  his 
complaint  was  not  to  be  judged  off- 
hand and  Cadi-fashion,  but  with  all 
sorts  of  cumbrous  and  expensive 
forms. 

However  this  may  be,  he  went  off 
with  his  wife  and  his  savings  to 
France  ;  and  enjoyed  himself  there  for 
some  months,  tackling  diligently  to 
French  the  while,  until  the  Revolution 
(it  was,  let  it  be  remembered,  in  1792) 
made  the  country  too  hot  for  him. 
He  determined  to  go  to  Philadelphia, 
where,  and  elsewhere  in  the  United 
States,  he  passed  the  next  seven  years. 
They  were  seven  years  of  a  very  lively 


98 


William  Oohhett. 


character ;  for  it  was  the  nature  of 
Cobbett  to  find  quarrels,  and  he  found 
plenty  of  them  here.  Some  accounts 
of  his  exploits  in  offence  and  defence 
may  be  found  in  the  biographies, 
fuller  ones  in  the  books  of  the 
chronicles  of  Peter  Porcupine,  his 
Tiom  de  guerre  in  pamphleteering  and 
journalism.  Cobbett  was  at  this  time, 
despite  his  transactions  with  the  Judge 
Advocate  General,  his  flight  and  his 
selection  of  France  and  America  for 
sojourn,  a  red  hot  Tory  and  a  true 
Briton,  and  he  engaged  in  a  violent 
controversy,  or  series  of  controversies, 
with  the  pro-Gallic  and  anti-English 
party  in  the  States.  The  works  of 
Peter,  besides  the  above-quoted  Bloody 
Biwy  and  CannihaVs  Progress,  contain 
in  their  five  thousand  pages  or  there- 
abouts, other  cheerfully  named  docu- 
ments, such  as,  A  Bone  to  Gnaw  for 
tJie  Democrats  J  A  Kick  for  a  Bite,  The 
Diplomatic  Blunderbuss,  The  American 
Rushlight,  and  so  on.  This  last  had 
mainly  to  do  with  a  non-political 
quarrel  into  which  Cobbett  got  with  a 
certain  quack  doctor  named  Rush. 
Rush  got  Cobbett  cast  in  heavy 
damages  for  libel ;  and  though  these 
were  paid  by  subscription,  the  affair 
seems  to  have  disgusted  our  pamph- 
leteer and  he  sailed  for  England  on 
June  1st,  1800. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  though 
Cobbett*  s  own  bragging  and  the 
bickering  of  his  biographers  have 
rather  darkened  than  illuminated  the 
matter,  that  he  came  home  with  pretty 
definite  and  very  fair  prospects  of 
Government  patronage.  More  than 
one  of  his  Anti-Jacobin  pamphlets 
had  been  reprinted  for  English  con- 
sumption. He  had  already  arranged 
for  the  London  edition  of  Porcupine^ s 
Works  which  appeared  subsequently;  and 
he  had  attracted  attention  not  merely 
from  literary  understrappers  of  Govern- 
ment but  from  men  like  Windham. 
Very  soon  after  his  return  Windham 
asked  him  to  dinner,  to  meet  not 
merely  Canning,  Ellis,  Frere,  Malone 
and  others,  but  Pitt  himself.  The 
publication   of   the   host's  diary   long 


afterwards  clearly  established  the  fact, 
which  had  been  rather  idly  contested 
or  doubted  by  some  commentators! 
How  or  why  Cobbett  fell  away  from 
Pitt's  party  is  not  exactly  known,  and 
is  easier  to  understand  than  to  defin- 
itely explain  ;  even  when  he  left  it  is 
not  certain.  He  was  offered,  he  says, 
a  Government  paper,  or  even  two ;  but 
he  refused  and  published  his  own 
Porcupine,  which  lasted  for  some  time 
till  it  lapsed  (with  intermediate  stages) 
into  the  famous  Weekly  Register,  In 
both,  and  in  their  intermediates  for 
some  three  or  four  years  at  least,  the 
general  policy  of  the  Government,  and 
especially  the  war  with  France,  was 
stoutly  supported.  But  Cobbett  was 
a  free-lance  born  and  bred,  and  he 
never  during  the  whole  of  his  life 
succeeded  in  working  under  any  other 
command  than  his  own,  or  with  any 
one  on  equal  terms.  He  got  into 
trouble  before  very  long  owing  to 
some  letters,  signed  Juvema,  on  the 
Irish  executive ;  and  though  his  con- 
tributor (one  Johnson,  afterwards  a 
judge),  gave  himself  up,  and  Cobbett 
escaped  the  fines  which  had  been  im- 
posed on  him,  his  susceptible  vanity 
had  no  doubt  been  touched.  It  was 
also  beyond  doubt  a  disgust  to  his 
self-educated  mind  to  find  himself  re- 
garded as  an  inferior  by  the  regularly 
trained  wits  and  scholars  of  the  Go- 
vernment press  ;  and  I  should  be  afraid 
that  he  was  annoyed  at  Pitt's  taking 
no  notice  of  him.  But,  to  do  Cobbett 
justice,  there  were  other  and  nobler 
reasons  for  his  revolt.  His  ideal  of 
politics  and  economics  (of  which  more 
presently),  though  an  impossible  one, 
was  sincere  and  not  ungenerous ;  and 
he  could  not  but  perceive  that  a  dozen 
years  of  war  had  made  its  contrast 
with  the  actual  state  of  the  British 
farmer  and  labourer  more  glaring  than 
ever.  The  influence  which  he  soon 
wielded,  and  the  profit  which  he 
derived  through  the  Register,  at  once 
puffed  him  up  and  legitimately  en- 
coui-aged  the  development  of  his  views. 
He  bought,  or  rather  (a  sad  thing  for 
such   a   denouncer    of    "paper"),   ob- 


William  GobbetL 


d\) 


tained,  subject  to  heavy  mortgages,  a 
considerable  estate  of  several  farms  at 
and  near  Botley  in  Hampshire.      Here 
for  some  five  years  (1805  to  1809),  he 
lived   the   life   of   a  very  substantial 
yeoman,  almost  a  squire,  entertaining 
freely,  farming,  coursing,  encouraging 
boxing  and  single-stick,    fishing  with 
drag-nets,   and    editing    the    Register 
partly  in  person  and  partly  by  deputy. 
Of  these  deputies,  the  chief  were  his 
partner,     and     afterwards     foe,    the 
printer   Wright,   and   Howell   of  the 
State   Trials,     This  latter,  being  un- 
luckily a  gentleman  and  a  university 
man,   comes  in  for  one  of  Cobbett*s 
characteristic  flings  as  *'  one  of  your 
college    gentlemen,"  who   "have  and 
always  will  have  the  insolence  to  think 
themselves     our    betters ;     and     our 
superior  talents,  industry  and  weight 
only  excite   their  envy."     Prosperity 
is  rarely  good  for  an  Englishman  of 
Cobbett's  stamp,  and  he  seems  at  this 
time  to  have  decidedly  lost  his  head. 
He     had    long     been    a    pronounced 
Radical,   thundering  or  guffawing  in 
the  Register  at  pensions,  sinecures,  the 
debt,     paper-money,     the     game-laws 
(though  he  preserved  himself),  and  so 
forth;   and  the  authorities  naturally 
enough  only  waited  for  an  opportunity 
of   explaining   to  him  that   immortal 
maxim  which  directs  the  expectations 
of   those   who   play  at  this   kind   of 
bowls.     In  July,  1809,  he  let  them  in 
by  an  article    of    the    most   violent 
character    on    the   suppression    of    a 
mutiny  among  the  Ely  Militia.     This 
had    been   put   down,    and   the   ring- 
leaders flogged  by  some  cavalry  of  the 
German   Legion ;    and    Cobbett   took 
advantage  of  this  to  beat  John  Bull's 
drum  furiously.     It  has  been  the  cus- 
tom to  turn  up  the  whites  of  the  eyes 
at  Lord  Ellenborough  who  tried   the 
case,  and  Sir  Yicary  Gibbs  who  prose- 
cuted ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  any 
sane  man,  remembering  what  the  im- 
portance of  discipline  in  the  army  was 
in  1809,  can  find  fault  with  the  jury 
who,  and  not  EUeuborough  or  Gibbs, 
had   to   settle   the   matter,  and    who 
found  Cobbett  guilty.     The  sentence 


no  doubt  was  severe, — as  such  sen- 
tences in  such  cases  were  then  wont  to 
be — two  years  in  Newgate.  The  judge, 
in  imposing  a  fine  of  a  thousand  pounds, 
and  security  in  the  same  amount  for 
seven  years  to  come,  may  be  thought 
to  have  looked  before  and  after  as  well 
as  at  the  present.  But  the  Register 
was  not  stopped,  and  Cobbett  was 
allowed  to  continue  in  it  without 
hindrance  a  polemic  which  was  not 
likely  to  grow  milder.  For  he  never 
forgot  or  forgave  an  injury  to  his 
interests,  or  an  insult  to  his  vanity  ; 
and  he  was  now  becoming,  quite 
honestly  and  disinterestedly,  more  and 
more  of  a  fanatic  on  divers  points,  both 
of  economics  and  of  politics  proper. 

I  cannot  myself  attach  much  im- 
portance to  the  undoubted  fact  that 
after  the  trial,  which  happened  in  June, 
1810,  but  before  judgment,  Cobbett, 
aghast  for  a  moment  at  the  apparent 
ruin  impending,  made  (as  he  certainly 
did  make)  some  overtures  of  surrender 
and  discontinuance  of  the  Register. 
Such  a  course  in  a  man  with  a  large 
family  and  no  means  of  supporting  it 
but  his  pen,  would  have  been,  if  not 
heroic,  not  disgracef  uU  But  the  negotia- 
tion somehow  fell  through.  Unluckily 
for  Cobbett,  he  on  two  subsequent 
occasions  practically  denied  that  he  had 
ever  made  any  offer  at  all  ;  and  the 
truth  only  came  out  when  he  and 
Wright  quarrelled,  nearly  a  dozen 
years  later.  This,  the  affair  of  the 
court  -  martial,  and  another  to  be 
mentioned  shortly,  are  the  only  blots 
on  his  conduct  as  a  man  that  I  know, 
and  in  such  an  Ishmael  as  he  was  they 
are  not  very  fatal. 

He  devoted  the  greater  part  of  his 
time,  during  the  easy,  though  rather 
costly,  imprisonment  of  those  days,  to 
his  Paper  against  Gold,  in  which,  with 
next  to  no  knowledge  of  the  subject, 
he  attacked  probably  the  thorniest  of 
all  subjects,  that  of  the  currency ;  and 
the  Register  went  on.  He  came  out  of 
Newgate  in  July,  1812,  naturally  in 
no  very  amiable  temper.  A  mixture 
of  private  and  public  griefs  almost  im- 
mediately brought  him  into  collision 

H     2 


100 


William  Cobbett. 


with  the  authorities  of  the  Church. 
He  had  long  been  at  loggerheads  with 
those  of  the  State ;  and  it  was  now 
more  than  ever  that  he  became  the  advo- 
cate (and  the  most  popular  advocate  it 
had)  of  Parliamentary  Reform.  He  was, 
however,  pretty  quiet  for  three  or  four 
years,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time,  in 
September,  1816,  he  acted  on  a  sug- 
gestion of  Lord  Cochrane's,  cheapened 
the  Register  from  one  shilling  to  two- 
pence, and  opened  the  new  series  with 
one  of  his  best  pamphlet  addresses, 
"  To  the  Journeymen  and  Labourers 
of  England,  Wales,  Scotland  and  Ire- 
land." For  a  time  he  was  verv  much  in 
the  mouths  of  men  ;  but  Ministers  were 
not  idle,  and  prepared  for  him  a  state  of 
things  still  hotter  than  he  had  experi- 
enced before.  Cobbett  did  not  give  it 
time  to  heat  itself  specially  for  him. 
He  turned  his  eyes  once  more  to 
America,  and,  very  much  to  the 
general  surprise,  suddenly  left  Liver- 
pool on  March  22nd,  1817,  arriving  in 
May  at  New  York,  whence  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Long  Island,  and  established 
himself  on  a  farm  there.  Unluckily 
there  were  other  reasons  for  his  flight 
besides  political  ones.  His  affairs 
had  become  much  muddled  during  his 
imprisonment,  and  had  not  mended 
since ;  and  though  his  assets  were  con- 
siderable they  were  of  a  kind  not  easy 
to  realise.  There  seems  no  doubt  that 
Cobbett  was  generally  thought  to  have 
run  away  from  a  gaol  in  more  senses 
than  one,  and  that  the  thought  did 
him  no  good. 

But  he  was  an  impossible  person  to 
put  down ;  even  his  own  mistakes, 
which  were  pretty  considerable,  could 
not  do  it.  His  flight,  as  it  was  called, 
gave  handles  to  his  enemies,  and  not 
least  to  certain  former  friends,  includ- 
ing such  very  different  persons  as 
Orator  Hunt  and  Sir  Francis  Burdett ; 
it  caused  a  certain  belatedness,  and, 
for  a  time,  a  certain  intermittency,  in 
his  contributions  to  the  Register;  it 
confirmed  him  in  his  financial  crazes, 
and  it  may  possibly  have  supported 
him  in  a  sort  of  private  repudiation  of 
his  own  debts,  which  he  executed  even 


before  becoming  legally  a  bankrupt. 
Finally  it  led  him  to  the  most  foolish 
act  of  his  life,  the  lugging  of  Tom 
Paine*s  bones  back  to  a  country  which, 
though  not  prosperous,  could  at  any 
rate  provide  itself  with  better  manure 
than  that.  In  this  famous  absurdity 
the  purely  silly  side  of  Cobbett* s 
character  comes  out.  For  some  time 
after  he  returned  he  was  at  low  water 
both  in  finances  and  in  popularity ; 
while  such  political  sanity  as  he  ever 
possessed  may  be  said  to  have  wholly 
vanished.  Yet,  oddly  enough,  or  not 
oddly,  the  transplanting  and  the  re- 
transplanting  seem  to  have  had  a 
refreshing  effect  on  his  literary  pro- 
duction. He  never  indeed  again 
produced  anything  so  vigorous  as  the 
best  of  his  earlier  political  works,  but 
in  non-political  and  mixed  styles  he 
even  improved ;  and  though  he  is  occa- 
sionally more  extravagant  than  ever  in 
substance,  there  is  a  certain  mellow- 
ness of  form  which  is  very  remark- 
able. He  was  not  far  short  of  sixty 
when  he  returned  in  1819;  but  the 
space  of  his  life  subsequent  to  his 
flight  yielded  the  Yearns  Residence  in 
America,  the  English  Grammar,  the 
Twelve  Sermons,  the  Cottage  Economy, 
the  English  (altered  from  a  previous 
American)  Gardener,  the  History  of  the 
Reformation,  the  Woodlands,  Cobbett' s 
Com,  the  Advice  to  Young  Men,  and  a 
dozen  other  works  original  or  com- 
piled, besides  the  Rural  Rides  and  his 
other  contributions  to  the  Register, 

He  could  not  have  lived  at  Botley  any 
longer  if  he  would,  for  the  place  was 
mortgaged  up  to  the  eyes.  But  to  live 
in  a  town  was  abhorrent  to  him  ;  and 
he  had  in  America  rather  increased  than 
satisfied  his  old  fancy  for  rural  occupa- 
tions. So  he  setup  house  at  Kensington, 
where  he  used  a  large  garden  (soon  sup- 
plemented by  more  land  at  Barnes,  and 
in  his  very  last  years  by  a  place  near 
Ash  in  his  native  district)  as  a  kind 
of  seed  farm,  selling  the  produce  at  the 
same  shop  with  his  Registers,  He  also 
utilized  his  now  frequent  rural  rides, 
partly  as  commercial  travelling  for  the 
diffusion  of  locust-trees,  swede  turnip 


William  Cobbett 


101 


seed,  and  Cobbett's  corn — a  peculiar 
kind  of  maize,  the  virtues  of  which  he 
vaunted  loudly. 

Also  he  began  to  think  seriously  of 
sitting  in  Parliament.  At  the  general 
election  after  George  the  Third's  death 
he  contested  Coventry,  but  without 
even  coming  near  success.  Soon  after- 
wards he  had  an  opportunity  of  in- 
creasing his  general  popularity — which, 
owing  to  his  flight,  his  repudiation,  and 
the  foolery  about  Paine's  bones,  had 
sunk  very  low — by  vigorously  taking 
Queen  Caroline's  side.  But  he  was 
not  more  fortunate  in  his  next  Parlia- 
mentary attempt  at  Preston,  in  1826. 
Preston,  even  before  the  Reform  Bill, 
was,  though  the  Stanley  influence  was 
strong,  a  comparatively  open  borough, 
and  had  a  large  electorate ;  but  it 
would  not  have  Cobbett,  nor  was  he 
ever  successful  till  after  the  Bill  passed. 
Before  its  passing  the  very  Whig 
Government  which  had  charge  of  it 
was  obliged  to  pull  him  up.  If  he  had 
been  treated  with  undeserved  severity 
before  he  was  extremely  fortunate  now, 
though  his  rage  against  his  unsuccess- 
ful Whig  prosecutors  was,  naturally 
enough,  much  fiercer  than  it  had  been 
against  his  old  Tory  enemies.  I  do  not 
think  that  any  fair-minded  person  who 
reads  the  papers  in  the  Register^  and 
the  cheaper  and  therefore  more  mis- 
chievous Two-^xny  Trash,  devoted  to 
the  subject  of  "  Swing,"  can  fail  to  see 
that  under  a  thin  cloak  of  denuncia- 
tion and.  dissuasion  their  real  purport 
is  "  Don't  put  him  under  the  pump," 
varied  and  set  off  by  suggestions  how 
extremely  easy  it  would  be  to  put  him 
under  the  pump,  and  how  improbable 
detection  or  punishment.  And  no- 
body, further,  who  reads  the  accounts 
of  the  famous  Bristol  riots  can  fail  to 
see  how  much  Cobbett  (who  had  been 
in  Bristol  just  before  in  full  cry  against 
*' Tax-Eaters  "  and  "Tithe-Eaters") 
had  to  do  with  them.  It  was  probably 
lucky  for  him  that  he  was  tried  before 
instead  of  after  the  Bristol  matter,  and 
even  as  it  was  he  was  not  acquitted  ; 
the  jury  disagreed.  After  the  Bill, 
his  election  somewhere  was  a  certaintv. 


and  he  sat  for  Oldham  till  his  death. 
Except  a  little  foolery  at  first,  and 
at  intervals  afterwards,  he  was  in- 
offensive enough  in  the  House.  Nor 
did  he  survive  his  inclusion  in  that 
Collective  Wisdom  at  which  he  had  so 
often  laughed  many  years,  but  died  on 
June  19th,  1835,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
three.  If  medical  opinion  is  right  the 
Collective  Wisdom  had  the  last  laugh  ; 
for  its  late  hours  and  confinement 
seemed  to  have  more  to  do  with  his 
death  than  any  disease. 

I  have  said  that  it  is  of  great  import- 
ance to  get  if  possible  a  preliminary 
idea  of  Cobbett' s  general  views  on 
politics.  This  not  only  adds  to  the 
understanding  of  his  work,  but  pre- 
vents perpetual  surprise  and  possible 
fretting  at  his  individual  flings  and 
crazes.  To  do  him  justice  there  was 
from  first  to  last  very  little  change  in 
his  own  political  ideal ;  though  there 
was  the  greatest  possible  change  in  his 
views  of  systems,  governments,  and  indi- 
viduals in  their  relations  to  that  ideal 
and  to  his  own  private  interests  or  vani- 
ties. In  this  latter  respect  Cobbett  was 
very  hiunan  indeed.  The  son  of  a  farmer- 
labourer,  and  himself  passionately  in- 
terested in  agricultural  pursuits,  he 
may  be  said  never,  from  the  day  he 
first  took  to  politics  to  the  day  of  his 
death,  to  have  really  and  directly  con- 
sidered the  welfare  of  any  other  class 
than  the  classes  occupied  with  tilling 
or  holding  land.  In  one  place  he 
frantically  applauds  a  real  or  supposed 
project  of  King  Ferdinand  of  Spain 
for  taxing  every  commercial  person 
who  sold,  or  bought  to  sell  again, 
goods  not  of  his  own  production  or 
manufacture.  If  he  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent tolerated  manufactures,  other 
than  those  carried  on  at  home  for 
immediate  use,  it  was  grudgingly, 
and  indeed  inconsistently  with  his 
general  scheme.  He  frequently  pro- 
tests against  the  substitution  of  the 
shop  for  the  fair  or  market ;  and  so 
jealous  is  he  of  things  passing  other- 
wise than  by  actual  delivery  in  ex- 
change for  actual  coin  or  payment  in 
kind,  that  he  grumbles  at  one  market 


102 


William  Cohhett. 


(I  think  Devizes)  because  the  corn  is 
sold   by  sample  and   not    pitched   in 
bulk  on  the  market-floor.     It  is  evident 
that  if  he  possibly  could  have  it,  he 
would   have  a  society  purely  agricul- 
tural,  men   making  what  things  the 
earth   does    not   directly    produce   as 
much   as   possible   for   themselves   in 
their  own  houses  during  the  intervals 
of  field-labour.    He  quarrels  with  none 
of  the  three  orders, — labourer,  farmer, 
and  landowner— as  such  ;  he  does  not 
want    "  the  land   for  the  people,'*  or 
the    landlord's  rent    for    the    farmer. 
Nor   does   he  want  any  of  the  lower 
class  to  live  in  even  mitigated  idleness. 
Eight   hours'  days   have  no  place   in 
Cobbett's   scheme;  still   less  relief  of 
children  from  labour  for  the  sake  of 
education.     Everybody  in  the  labour- 
ing class,  women  and  children  included, 
is   to   work   and    work  pretty   hard  ) 
while  the  landlord  may  have  as  much 
sport   as    ever   he   likes  provided   he 
allows  a  certain  share  to  his  tenant  at 
times.    But  the  labourer  and  his  family 
are  to  have   "  full  bellies  "  (it  would 
be  harsh    but  not  entirely  unjust  to 
say  that  the  full  belly  is  the  beginning 
and  end  of  Cobbett's  theory),  plenty  of 
good  beer,  warm  clothes,  staunch  and 
comfortably   furnished   houses.      And 
that  they  may  have  these  things  they 
must  have  good  wages  ;  though  Cobbett 
does  not  at  all  object  to  the  truck  or 
even     the    *'  Tommy "     system.       He 
seems  to  have,  like  a  half  socialist  as 
he   is,  no  affection  for  saving,  and  he 
once,    with    rather   disastrous    conse- 
quences, took  to  paying  his  own  farm- 
labourers   entirely   in    kind.      In   the 
same  way  the  farmer  is   to  have  full 
stack-yards,  a  snug  farm-house,  with 
orchards  and  gardens  thoroughly  plen- 
ished.     But  he  must  not  drink  wine  or 
tea,  and  his  daughters  must  work  and 
not  play  the  piano.    Squires  there  may 
be  of  all   sorts,  from  the  substantial 
yeoman  to  the  lord  (Cobbett  has  no  ob- 
jection to  lords),  and  they  may,  I  think, 
meet  in  some  way  or  other  to  counsel 
the  king  (for  Cobbett  has  no  objection 
to  kings).     There  is  to  be  a  militia  for 
the  defence  of  the  country,  and  there 


might  be  an  Established  Church  pro- 
vided that  the  tithes  were  largely,  if 
not  wholly,  devoted  to  the  relief  of  the 
poor  and  the  exercise  of    hospitality. 
Everybody,  provided  he  works,  is  to 
marry  the  prettiest  girl   he  can  find 
(Cobbett  had  a  most  generous  weak- 
ness for  pretty  girls)  as  early  as  pos- 
sible and  have  any  number.of  children. 
But  though  there  is  to  be  plenty  of 
game,  there  are  to  be  no  game-laws. 
There  is  to  be  no  standing  army,  though 
there  may  be  a  navy.    ^There  is  to  be  no, 
or  the  very  smallest,  civil  service.     It 
stands  to  reason  that  there  is  to  be  no 
public  debt ;  and  the  taxes  are  to  be  as 
low  and  as  uniform  as  possible.     Com- 
merce, even  on  the  direct  scale,  if  that 
scale  be  large,    is  to  be  discouraged, 
and  any  kind  of  middleman  absolutely 
exterminated.        There     is    to  be   no 
poetry  (Cobbett  does  sometimes  quote 
Pope,    but   always   with   a   gibe),    no 
general  literature  (for  though  Cobbett's 
own  works  are  excellent,  and  indeed 
indispensable,  that  is  chiefly  because 
of   the   corruptions  of  the   times),  no 
fine  arts — though  Cobbett   has  a  cer- 
tain weakness  for  church  architecture, 
mainly  for  a  reason  presently  to   be 
explained.     Above  all  there  is  to  be 
no  such  thing  as  what  is  called  abroad 
a  rentier,     No  one  is  to  "  live  on  his 
means,"     unless    these    means     come 
directly  from  the  owning  or  the  tilling 
of    land.     The    harmless    fund-holder 
with  his  three  or  four  hundred  a  year, 
the     government-clerk,    the    half -pay 
officer,    are   as  abhorrent   to  Cobbett 
as  the  pensioner  for  nothing  and  the 
sinecurist.     This  is  the  state  of  things 
which  he  loves,  and  it  is  because  the 
actual  state  of  things  is  so  different, 
and  for  no  other  reason,  that  he  is  a 
Radical  Reformer. 

I  need  not  say  that  no  such  con- 
nected picture  as  I  have  endeavoured 
to  draw  will  be  found  in  any  part  of 
Cobbett's  works.^  The  strokes  which 
compose  it  are  taken  from  a  thousand 

1  The  nearest  approach  is  in  the  Mancliester 
Lectures  of  1831  ;  but  this  is  not  so  much  a 
project  of  an  ideal  State  as  a  scheme  for  re- 
forming the  actual. 


William  Cohhett. 


103 


different  places  and  filled  in  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  by  guess  work.  But  I  am 
sure  it  is  faithful  to  what  he  would 
have  drawn  himself  if  he  had  been 
given  to  imaginative  construction.  It 
will  be  seen  at  once  that  it  is  a  sort 
of  parallel  in  drab  homespun,  a  more 
practical  double  (if  the  adjective  may- 
be used  of  two  impracticable  things), 
of  Mr.  William  Morris's  agreeable 
dreams.  The  art  tobacco-pouches,  and 
the  museums,  the  young  men  hanging 
about  off  Biffin's  to  give  any  one  a 
free  row  on  the  river,  and  so  forth, 
were  not  in  Cobbett's  way.  But  the 
canvas,  and  even  the  main  compo- 
sition of  the  picture,  is  the  same.  Of 
course  the  ideal  State  never  existed 
anywhere,  and  never  could  continue  to 
exist  long  if  it  were  set  up  in  full 
working  order  to-morrow.  Labourer 
A.  would  produce  too  many  children, 
work  too  few  hours,  and  stick  too 
close  to  the  ale-pot ;  farmer  B.  would 
be  ruined  by  a  bad  year  or  a  murrain ; 
squire  C.  would  outrun  the  non-existent 
constable  and  find  a  Jew  to  help  him, 
even  if  Cobbett  made  an  exception  to 
his  hatred  of  placemen  for  the  sake  of 
a  Crown  toothd  rawer.  One  of  the 
tradesmen  who  were  permitted  on 
sufferance  to  supply  the  biass  kettles 
and  the  grandfathers'  clocks  which 
Cobbett  loves  would  produce  better 
goods  and  take  better  care  of  the  pro- 
ceeds than  another,  with  the  result  of 
a  better  business  and  hoarded  wealth. 
In  short  men  would  be  men,  and  the 
world  the  world,  in  spite  of  Cobbett 
and  Mr.  Morris  alike. 

I  doubt  whether  Cobbett,  who  knew 
something  of  history,  ever  succeeded 
in  deceiving  himself,  great  as  were  his 
powers  that  way,  into  believing  that 
this  state  ever  had  existed.  He  would 
have  no  doubt  gone  into  a  paroxysm 
of  rage  and  have  called  me  as  bad 
names  as  it  was  in  his  heart  to  apply 
to  any  Hampshire  man,  if  I  had  sug- 
gested that  such  an  approach  to  it  as 
existed  in  his  beloved  fifteenth  century 
was  due  to  the  Black  Death,  the  French 
wars  and  those  of  the  Hoses.  But  the 
fair  vision  ever  fled  before  him  day 


and  night,  and   made   him  more  and 
more  furious  with  the  actual  state  of 
England, — which   was   no   doubt  bad 
enough.      The    labourers    with    their 
eight  or  ten  shillings  a  week  and  their 
Banyan  diet,  the  farmers  getting  half- 
price  for  their  ewes  and  their  barley, 
the    squires  ousted  by  Jews  and  job- 
bers, filled  his  soul  with  a  certainly 
not  ignoble  rage,  only  tempered  by  a 
sort  of  exultation  to  think  in  the  last 
case  that  the  fools  had  brought  their 
ruin  on  their  own  heads  by  truckling 
to  "the  Thing."     "The  Thing"  was 
the  whole  actual  social  and  political 
state  of  England ;  and  on  everything 
and  everybody  that  had  brought  "the 
Thing"    about    he   poured    impartial 
vitriol.     The  war  which  had  run  up 
the  debt  and  increased  the  tax-eaters 
at  the  same  time  ;  the  boroughmongers 
who  had  countenanced  the  war  ;   the 
Jews  and  jobbers   that  negotiated  and 
dealt  in  the  loans  ;  the  parsons  that 
ate  the  tithes ;  the  lawyers  that  did 
government     work,  —  Cobbett    thun- 
dered against  them  all.  But  his  wrath 
also  descended  upon  far  different,  and 
one  would    have   thought    sufficiently 
guiltless,    things   and   persons.      The 
potato,    the    "  soul  -  destroying   root" 
so  easy  to  grow  (Cobbett  did  not  live 
to  see  the  potato  famine  or  I  fear  he 
would  have  been  rather  hideous  in  his 
joy)  so  innutritious,  so   exclusive  of 
sound  beef  and  bread,  has  worse  lan- 
guage than  even  a  stock-jobber  or  a 
sinecurist.     Tea,  the  expeller  of  beer, 
the  pamperer  of  foreign  commerce,  the 
waster  of  the  time  of  farmers'  wives, 
is   nearly  as   bad   as   the   potato.     I 
could  not  within  any  possible  or  prob- 
able space  accorded  me  here  follow  out  a 
tithe  or  a  hundredth  part  of  the  strange 
ramifications  and  divagations  of  Cob- 
bett's  grand  economic  craze.  The  most 
comical  branch  perhaps  is  his  patron- 
age of  the  Roman   Catholic   Church, 
and   the   most   comical  twig  of   that 
branch  his  firm  belief  that  the  abun- 
dance  and    size   of   English  churches 
testify   to  an  infinitely    larger  popu- 
lation in  England  of  old  than  at  the 
present  day.     His  rage  at  the  impu- 


10  if 


William  CobbeiL 


dent  Scotchman  who  put  the  popula- 
tion at  two  millions  when  he  is  sure  it 
was  twenty,  and  the  earnestness  with 
which  he  proves  that  a  certain  Wilt- 
shire vale  having  so  many  churches 
capable  of  containing  so  many  people 
must  have  once  had  so  many  score 
thousand  inhabitants,  are  about 
equally  amusing.  That  in  the  days 
which  he  praises  much,  and  in  which 
these  churches  were  built,  the  notion 
of  building  a  church  to  seat  so  many 
would  have  been  regarded  as  unin- 
telligible if  not  blasphemous ;  that 
in  the  first  place  the  church  was  an 
offering  to  God,  not  a  provision  for 
getting  worship  done ;  and  that  in  the 
second,  the  worship  of  old  with  its 
processions,  its  numerous  altars  in  the 
same  churches,  and  so  on,  made  a  dis- 
proportionate amount  of  room  abso- 
lutely necessary, — these  were  things 
you  could  no  more  have  taught  Cob- 
bett  than  you  could  have  taught  him 
to  like  Marmion  or  lead  the  Witch  of 
Atlas. 

It  is  however  time,  and  more  than 
time,  to  follow  him  rapidly  through 
the  curious  labyrinth  of  work  in  which, 
constantly  though  often  very  uncon- 
sciously keeping  in  sight  this  ideal, 
he  wandered  from  Pittite  Toryism  to 
the  extreme  of  half  socialist  and 
wholly  radical  Keform.  His  sons, 
very  naturally  but  rather  unwisely, 
have  in  the  great  selection  of  the 
Political  Wo^^ks  drawn  very  sparingly 
on  Peter  Porcupine.  But  no  estimate 
of  Cobbett  that  neglects  the  results  of 
this,  his  first,  phase  will  ever  be  satis- 
factory. It  is  by  no  means  the  most 
amusing  division  of  Cobbett* s  works ; 
but  it  is  not  the  least  characteristic, 
and  it  is  full  of  interest  for  the  study 
both  of  English  and  of  American  poli- 
tics. The  very  best  account  that  I  know 
of  the  original  American  Constitution, 
and  of  the  party  strife  that  followed 
the  peace  with  England,  is  contained 
in  the  summary  that  opens  the  Works. 
Then  for  some  years  we  find  Cobbett 
engaged  in  fighting  the  Jacobin  party, 
the  fight  constantly  turning  into  skir- 
mishes  on   his   private  account,   con- 


ducted with  singular  vigour  if  at  a 
length  disproportionate  to  the  present 
interest  of  the  subject.  Here  is  the 
autobiography  before  noticed,  and  in 
all  the  volumes,  especially  the  earlier 
ones,  the  following  of  Swift,  often  by 
no  means  unhappy,  is  very  noticeable. 
It  is  a  little  unlucky  that  a  great 
part  of  the  whole  consists  of  selec- 
tions from  Porcupine's  Gazette,  that 
is  to  say,  of  actual  newspaper  mattei* 
of  the  time,  —  "  slag-heaps,"  to  use 
Carlyle's  excellent  phrase,  from  which 
the  metal  of  present  application  has 
been  smelted  out  and  used  up  long 
ago.  This  inconvenience  also  and  of 
necessity  applies  to  the  still  largei* 
collection,  duplicating,  as  has  l^een 
said,  a  little  from  Porcupine,  but 
principally  selected  from  the  Register, 
which  was  published  after  Cobbett's 
death.  But  this  is  of  far  greater 
general  importance,  for  it  contains  the 
pith  and  marrow  of  all  his  writings 
on  the  subject  to  which  he  gave  most 
of  his  heart.  Here,  in  the  first  volume, 
besides  the  selection  from  Porcupine, 
are  the  masterly  Letters  to  Addington 
on  the  Peace  of  Amiens,  in  which  that 
most  foolish  of  the  foolish  things  called 
armistices  is  treated  as  it  deserved, 
and  with  a  combination  of  vigour  and 
statesmanship  which  Cobbett  never 
showed  after  he  lost  the  benefit  of 
Windham's  patronage  and  (probably) 
inspii'ation.  Here  too  is  a  defence  of 
bull- baiting  after  Windham*s  own 
heart.  The  volume  ends  with  the 
Letters  to  William  Pitt,  in  which  Cob- 
bett declared  and  supported  his  defec- 
tion from  Pitt's  system  generally. 
The  whole  method  and  conduct  of  the 
writings  of  this  time  are  so  different 
from  the  rambling  denunciations  of 
Cobbett' s  later  days,  and  from  the 
acute  but  rather  desultory  and  ex- 
tremely personal  Porcupinades,  that 
one  is  almost  driven  to  accept  the 
theory  of  "  inspiration."  The  lite- 
rary model  too  has  shifted  from 
Swift  to  Burke, — Burke  upon  whom 
Cobbett  was  later  to  pour  torrents  of 
his  foolishest  abuse  ;  and  both  in  thits 
first  and  in  the   second   volume  the 


William  Cdbhett 


105 


reformer  appears  wandering  about  in 
search  of  subjects  not  merely  politi- 
cal but  general,  Crim.  Con.,  Poor-laws, 
and  so  forth.  But  in  the  second 
volume  we  have  to  notice  a  paper  still 
in  the  old  style  and  full  of  good  sense, 
on  Boxing.  In  the  third  Cobbett  is 
in  full  Radical  cry.  Here  is  the  article 
which  sent  him  to  Newgate ;  and  long 
before  it  a  series  of  virulent  attacks 
on  the  Duke  of  York  in  the  matter  of 
Mrs.  Clarke,  together  with  onslaughts 
on  those  Anti-Jacobins  to  whom  Cob- 
bett had  once  been  proud  to  belong. 
It  also  includes  a  very  curious  Plan 
for  an  Armyy  which  marks  a  sort  of 
middle  stage  in  Cobbett' s  views  on 
that  subject.  The  latter  part  of  it, 
and  the  whole  of  the  next  (the  fourth) 
consist  mainly  of  long  series  on  the 
Regency  (the  last  and  permanent  Re- 
gency), on;  the  Regent's  disputes  with 
his  wife,  and  on  the  American  War. 
All  this  part  displays  Cobbett' s  grow- 
ing ill-temper,  and  also  the  growing 
wildness  of  his  schemes — one  of  which 
is  a  sliding  scale  adjusting  all  salaries, 
from  the  Civil  List  to  the  soldier's  pay. 
according  to  the  price  of  corn.  But 
there  is  still  no  loss  of  vigour,  if  some 
of  sanity ;  and  the  opening  paper  of 
the  fifth  volume,  the  famous  Address 
to  the  Labourers  aforesaid,  is,  as  I 
have  said,  perhaps  the  climax  of  Cob- 
bett's  political  writing  in  point  of  force 
and  form, — ^which  thing  I  say  utterly 
disagreeing  with  almost  all  its  sub- 
stance. This  same  fifth  volume  con- 
tains another  remarkable  instance  of 
Cobbett's  extraordinary  knack  of 
writing,  as  well  as  of  his  rapidly  de- 
creasing judgment,  in  the  Letter  to 
JoKik  Harrow,  an  English  Labourer,  on 
the  new  Cheat  of  Savings  Banks. 
At  least  half  of  the  volume  dates  after 
Cobbett' 8  flight,  while  some  is  posterior 
to  his  return.  The  characteristics 
which  distinguish  his  later  years,  his 
wild  crotchets  and  his  fantastic  run- 
ning-a-muck  at  all  public  men  of  all 
parties  and  not  least  at  his  own  former 
friends,  distinguish  both  it  and  the 
sixth  and  last,  which  carries  the  selec- 
tion down  to    his    death.     Yet   even 


such  things  as  the  Letter  to  Old  George 
Rose  and  that  from  The  Labourers  of  the 
ten  little  Hard  Parishes  [this  was  Cob- 
bett's  name  for  the  district  between 
Winchester  and  Whitchurch,  much  of 
which  had  recently  been  acquired  by 
the  predecessors  of  Lord  Northbrook] 
to  Alexander  Baring,  Loanmonger, 
both,  at  a  considerable  distance  of 
time,  show  the  strength  and  the  weak- 
ness of  this  odd  person  in  conspicuous 
mixture.  He  is  as  rude,  as  coarse,  as 
personal  as  may  be ;  he  is  grossly  un- 
just to  individuals  and  wildly  flighty 
in  principle  and  argument ;  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  imagine  a  more  danger- 
ous counsellor  in  such,  or  indeed  in 
any  times.  Except  that  he  is  harder- 
headed  and  absolutely  unchivalrous, 
his  politics  are  very  much  those  of 
Colonel  Newcome.  And  yet  the  vigour 
of  the  style  is  still  so  great,  the  flame 
and  heat  of  the  man's  conviction  are 
so  genuine,  his  desire  according  to  the 
best  he  knows  to  benefit  his  clients, 
and  his  unselfishness  in  taking  up 
those  clients,  are  so  unquestionable 
that  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  both 
sympathy  and  admiration.  If  I  had 
been  Dictator  about  1830  I  think  I 
tjhould  have  hanged  Cobbett;  but  I 
should  have  sent  for  him  first  and 
asked  leave  to  shake  hands  with  him 
before  he  went  to  the  gallows. 

These  collections  are  invaluable  to 
the  political  and  historical  student ; 
and  I  hardly  know  any  better  models, 
not  for  the  exclusive,  but  for  the  eclec- 
tic attention  of  the  political  writer, 
especially  if  his  education  be  academic 
and  his  tastes  rather  anti-popular.  But 
there  is  better  pasture  for  the  general 
student.  The  immense  variety  of  the 
works,  which,  though  they  cannot 
be  called  non-political — Cobbett  would 
have  introduced  politics  into  arithmetic 
and  astronomy,  as  he  actually  does  into 
grammar — are  not  political  in  main 
substance  and  purport.  They  belong 
almost  entirely,  as  has  been  said,  to  the 
last  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of 
Cobbett' s  life ;  and  putting  the  Years 
Residence  aside,  the  English  Grammar 
is  the  earliest.      It    is   couched  in  a 


106 


William  Gobbett 


series  of  letters  to  his  son  James,  who 
had  been  brought  up   to  the  age  of 
fourteen  on  the  principle  (by  no  means 
a  bad  one)  of  letting  him  pick  up  the 
Three  R's  as  he  pleased,  and  leaving 
him  for  the  rest  "  To  ride  and  hunt  and 
shoot,  to  dig  the  beds  in  the  garden,  to 
trim   the   flowers,  and    to   prune   the 
trees."     It  is  like  all  Cobbett's  books, 
on    whatsoever    subject,  a    wonderful 
mixture     of     imperfect     information, 
shrewd  sense,  and  fantastic  crotchet. 
On  one  page  Cobbett  calmly  instructs 
his  son  that  "  prosody  "  means  "  pro- 
nunciation "  ;  on  another,  he  confuses 
"  etymology  "  with  **  accidence. "    This 
may  make  the  malicious  college-bred 
man  envious  of  the  author's  superior 
genius  ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
book  contains  about  a&  clear  an  account 
of  the  practical  and  working  nature 
and  use  of  sound  English  speech  and 
writing   as   can   anywhere   be  found. 
Naturally  Cobbett  is  not  always  right ; 
but  if  any  one  will  compare  his  book, 
say  with  a  certain  manual  composed  by 
a  very  learned  Emeritus  Professor  in  a 
certain   University   of   Scotland,   and 
largely  inflicted  on  the  youth  of  that 
kingdom  as  well  as  to  some  extent  on 
those  of  the  adjoining  realm,  he  will 
not,  I  think,  be  in  much  doubt  which 
to  prefer.    The  grammar  was  published 
in  1818,  and  Cobbett' s  next  book  of 
note   was  the  Religious  Tracts,  after- 
wards called  Twelve  Sermons.     He  says 
that  many  parsons  had  the  good  sense 
to  preach  them ;  and  indeed,  a  few  of 
his  usual  outbursts  excepted,  they  are 
as  sound  specimens  of  moral  exhorta- 
tion as  anybody  need  wish  to  hear  or 
deliver.     They  are  completed  charac- 
teristically enough  by  a  wild  onslaught 
on  the  Jews,   separately  paged  as  if 
Cobbett  was  a  little   ashamed  of  it. 
Then   came   the  Cottage  Economy^  in- 
structing and  exhorting  the  English 
labourer  in  the  arts  of  brewing,  baking, 
stock-keeping  of  all  sorts, making  straw- 
bonnets,  and  building  ice-houses.    This 
is  perhaps  the  most  agreeable  of  all 
Cobbett's  minor   books,  next   to    the 
Rural  Rides.     The  descriptions  are  as 
vivid    as    Robinson    Crusoe,    and    are 


further  lit  up  by  flashes  of  the  genuine 
man.      Thus,  after  a   most  peaceable 
and  practical  discourse  on  the  making 
of  rush-lights,  he  writes:  "You  may 
do  any  sort  of  work  by  this  light ;  and 
if  reading  be  your  taste  you  may  read 
the  foul  libels,  the  lies,  and  abuse  which 
are    circulated    gratis    about   me    by 
the  Society  for  Promoting  Christian 
Knowledge."     Here  too  is  a  charming 
piece  of  frankness  :  **  Any  beer  is  better 
than  water ;  but  it  should  have  soTns 
strength  and  some  weeks  of  age  at  any 
rate."     A  rearrangement  of  the  Horse^ 
hoeing  Industry  of  Jethro  Tull,  barris- 
ter, and  the  French  Gra/mma/r  hardly 
count  among  his  purely  and  originally 
literary  work  ;  but  the  History  of  the 
Reformation  is  one  of  its  most  charac- 
teristic if  not  one  of  its  most  admirable 
parts.     Cobbett' s  feud  with  the  clergy 
was  now  at  its  height ;   he  had  long 
before  been  at  daggers  drawn  with  his 
own  parson  at  Botley.     The  gradual 
hardening  of  his  economic  crazes  made 
him   more    and    more    hate    "  Tithe- 
Eaters,"  and  his  wrath  with  them  was 
made  hotter  by  the  fact  that  they  were 
as  a  body  opponents  of  Keform.     So 
with  a  mixture  of  astounding  ignorance 
and  of  self- confidence  equally  amazing, 
he  set  to    work  to   put   the   crudest 
Roman  view  of  the  Reformation  and  of 
earlier   times   into    his    own   forcible 
English.     The  book  is  very  amusing  ; 
but  it  is  so  grossly  ignorant,  and  the 
virulence  of  its  tirades  against  Henry 
VIII.  and  the  rest   so  palpable,  that 
even  in  that  heated  time  it  would  not 
do.     It  may  be  gathered  from  some 
remarks  of  Cobbett' s  own  that  he  felt 
it  a  practical  failure ;  though  he  never 
gave  up  its  views,  and  constantly  in 
his  latest  articles  and  speeches  invited 
everybody  to  search  it  for  the  founda- 
tion of  all  truth  about  the  Church  of 
England.     The  more  important  of  his 
next  batch  of  publications,  the  Wood- 
lands, The  English  Ga/rdener,  Cobbett^ a 
Corn,    restore   a    cooler    atmosphere ; 
though  even  here  there  are  the  usual 
spurts.      Very    amusing    is    the  sup- 
pressed wrath  of  the  potato  article  in 
the  English  Gardener,  with  its  magnani- 


William  Gdbhett. 


107 


mous  admission  that  *' there  appears 
to  be  nothing  unwholesome  about  it ; 
and  it  does  very  well  to  qualify  the 
effects  of  the  meat  or  to  assist  in  the 
swallowing  of  quantities  of  butter." 
Pleasing  too  is  the  remark,  **  If  this 
turnip  really  did  come  from  Scotland, 
there  is  something  good  that  is  Scotch." 
The  Cobbett's  Corn,  already  noticed,  is 
one  of  the  most  curious  of  all  his  books, 
and  an  instance  of  his  singular  vigour 
in  taking  up  fancies.  Although  he 
sold  the  seed,  it  does  not  appear  that 
he  could  in  any  case  have  made  much 
profit  out  of  it ;  and  he  gave  it  away 
so  freely  that  it  would,  had  it  succeeded, 
soon  have  been  obtainable  from  any 
seedsman  in  the  kingdom.  Yet  he 
writes  a  stout  volume  about  it,  and 
seems  to  have  taken  wonderful  interest 
in  its  propagation,  chiefly  because  he 
hoped  it  would  drive  out  his  enemy  the 
potato.  The  English  climate  was 
naturally  too  much  for  it ;  but  the 
most  amusing  thing,  to  me  at  least, 
about  the  whole  matter  is  the  remem- 
brance that  the  "yellow  meal"  which 
it,  like  other  maize,  produced,  became 
a  short  time  after  Cobbett's  own  death 
the  utter  loathing  and  abomination 
of  English  and  Irish  paupers  and 
labourers,  a  sort  of  sign  and  symbol  of 
capitalist  tyranny.  Soon  afterwards 
came  the  last  of  Cobbett's  really  re- 
markable and  excellent  works,  the 
Advice  to  Young  Men  and  Incidentally 
to  Youny  Women,  one  of  the  kindliest 
and  most  sensible  books  of  its  kind 
ever  written.  The  other  books  of 
Cobbett's  later  years  are  of  little 
account  in  any  way ;  and  in  the  three 
little  Legacies  (to  Labourers,  to  Peel, 
and  to  Parsons)  there  is  a  double  portion 
of  now  cut-and-dried  crotchet  in  matter, 
and  hardly  any  of  the  old  power  in 
form. 

Yet  to  the  last,  or  at  any  rate  till 
his  disastrous  election,  Cobbett  was 
<^obbett.  The  Rural  Rides,  though  his 
own  collection  of  them  stopped  at  1830, 
went  on  to  1832.  This,  the  only  one 
of  his  books,  so  far  as  I  know,  that  has 
been  repeatedly  and  recently  reprinted, 
shows  him  at  his  best  and  his  worst ; 


but  almost  always  at  his  best  in  form. 
Indeed,  the  reader  for  mere  pleasure 
need  hardly  read  anything  else,  and  will 
find  there  to  the  full  the  delightful  de- 
scriptions of  rural  England,  the  quaint, 
confident,  racy,  wrong-headed  opinions, 
the  command  over  the  English  language 
and  the  ardent  affection  for  the  English 
soil  and  its  children,  that  distinguish 
Cobbett  at  his  very  best. 

I  have  unavoidably  spent  so  much 
time  on  this  account  of  Cobbett's  own 
works, — an  account  which  without 
copious  extract  must  be,  I  fear,  still 
inadequate,  —  that  the  anti-Cobbett 
polemic  must  go  with  hardly  any  no- 
tice at  all.  Towards  the  crisis  of  the 
Reform  Bill  it  became  very  active, 
and  at  times  remarkable.  Among  two 
collections  which  I  possess,  one  of 
bound  tracts  dating  from  this  period, 
the  other  of  loose  pamphlets  ranging 
over  the  greater  part  of  Cobbett's  life, 
the  keenest  by  far  is  a  certain  publi- 
cation called  Cobbett's  Penny  Trash, 
which  figures  in  both,  though  one  or 
two  others  have  no  small  point.  The 
enemy  naturally  made  the  utmost  of 
the  statement  of  the  condemned  la- 
bourer Goodman,  who  lay  in  Horsham 
Gaol  under  sentence  of  death  for 
arson,  that  he  had  been  stirred  up  by 
Cobbett's  addresses  to  commit  the 
crime ;  but  still  better  game  was 
made  controversially  of  his  flagrant 
and  life-long  inconsistencies,  of  his 
enormous  egotism,  of  his  tergiversa- 
tion in  the  matter  of  the  offer  to  dis- 
continue the  Register,  and  of  his  re- 
pudiation of  his  debt  to  Sir  Francis 
Burdett.  And  the  main  sting  of  the 
Penny  Trash,  which  must  have  been 
written  by  a  very  clever  fellow  indeed, 
is  the  imitation  of  Cobbett's  own  later 
style,  its  italics,  its  repetitions,  its 
quaint  mannerisms  of  fling  and  vaunt. 
The  example  of  this  had  of  course 
been  set  much  earlier  by  the  Smiths 
in  Rejected  Addresses,  but  it  was  even 
better  done  here. 

Cobbett  was  indeed  vulnerable 
enough.  He,  if  any  one,  is  the  justi- 
fication of  the  theory  of  Time,  Coun- 
try, and  Milieu,  and  perhaps  the  fact 


108 


William  CobbetL 


that  it  only  adjusts  itself  to  such 
persons  as  he  is  the  chief  condemna- 
tion of  that  theory.  Even  with  him 
it  fails  to  account  for  the  personal 
genius  which  after  all  is  the  only 
thing  that  makes  him  tolerable,  and 
which  when  he  is  once  tolerated,  makes 
him  almost  admirable.  Only  an  Eng- 
lish TerrcB  FUtus,  destitute  of  the 
education  which  the  traditional  Terroe 
Filius  had,  writing  too  in  the  stress 
of  the  great  Revolutionary  struggle 
and  at  hand-grips  with  the  inevitable 
abuses  which  that  struggle  at  once 
left  unbettered,  after  the  usual  gradual 
fashion  of  English  betterment,  and 
aggravated  by  the  pressure  of  econo- 
mic changes — could  have  ventured  to 
write  with  so  little  knowledge  or  range 
of  logical  power,  and  yet  have  written 
with  such  individual  force  and  adapta- 
tion of  style  to  the  temper  of  his 
audience.  At  a  later  period  and  in 
difFerent  circumstances  Cobbett  could 
hardly  have  been  so  acrimonious,  so 
wildly  fantastic,  so  grossly  and  almost 
impudently  ignorant,  and  if  he  had 
been  he  would  have  been  simply 
laughed  at  or  unread.  A.t  an  earlier 
period,  or  in  another  country,  he  would 
have  been  bought  off  or  cut  off.  Even 
at  the  same  time  the  mere  circum- 
stantial fact  of  the  connection  of  most 
educated  and  well-informed  writers 
with  the  Government  or  at  least  with 
the  regular  Opposition,  gave  such  a 
Free-lance  as  this  an  unequalled  op- 
portunity of  making  himself  heard. 
His  very  inconsistency,  his  very  fero- 
city, his  very  ignorance,  gave  him  the 
key  of  the  hearts  of  the  multitude, 
who  just  then  were  the  persons  of 
most  importance.  And  to  these  per- 
sons that  characteristic  of  his  which 
is  either  most  laughable  or  most  dis- 
gusting to  the  educated, — his  most 
unparalleled,  his  almost  inconceivable 
egotism — was  no  drawback.  When 
Cobbett  with  many  italics  in  an  ad- 
vertisement to  all  his  later  books  told 
them,  "  When  I  am  asked  what  books 
a  young  man  or  young  woman  ought 
to  read  I  always  answer  :  *  Let  him  or 
her  read  all  t/ie  books  that  I  have  ^or it- 


ten,*  "  proceeding  to  show  in  detail 
that  this  was  no  humorous  gasconade 
but  a  serious  recommendation,  one 
*' which  it  is  my  dtUy  to  give,"  the 
classes  laughed  consumedly.  But  the 
masses  felt  that  Cobbett  was  at  any 
rate  a  much  cleverer  and  more  learned 
person  than  themselves,  had  no  objec- 
tion on  the  score  of  taste,  and  were 
naturally  conciliated  by  his  partisan- 
ship on  their  own  side.  And,  clever 
as  he  was,  he  was  not  too  clever 
for  them.  He  knew  that  they 
cared  nothing  about  consistency,  no- 
thing about  chivalry^  nothing  about 
logic.  He  could  make  just  enough 
and  not  too  much  parade  of  facts  and 
figures  to  impress  them.  And  above 
all  he  had  that  invaluable  gift  of  be- 
lief in  himself  and  in  his  own  falla- 
cies which  no  demagogue  can  do  with- 
out. I  do  not  know  a  more  fatal 
delusion  than  the  notion,  entertained 
by  many  persons,  that  a  mere  charla- 
tan, a  conscious  charlatan,  can  be 
effective  as  a  statesman,  especially  on 
the  popular  side.  Such  a  one  may  be 
an  excellent  understrapper;  but  he 
will  never  be  a  real  leader. 

In  this  respect  however  Cobbett  is 
only  a  lesson,  a  memory,  and  an  ex- 
ample, which  are  all  rather  dead 
things.  In  respect  of  his  own  native 
literary  genius  he  is  still  a  thing  alive 
and  delectable.  I  have  endeavoured, 
so  far  as  has  been  possible  in  treating 
a  large  subject  in  little  room,  to  point 
out  his  characteristics  in  this  respect 
also.  But  as  happens  with  all  writers 
of  his  kidney  he  is  not  easily  to  be 
characterised.  Like  certain  wines  he 
has  the  goUt  du  terroir  ;  and  that  gust 
is  rarely  or  never  definable  in  words. 
It  is  however  I  think  critically  safe  to 
say  that  the  intensity  and  peculiarity 
of  Cobbett* s  literary  savour  are  in  the 
ratio  of  his  limitation.  He  was  con- 
tent to  ignore  so  vast  a  number  of 
things,  he  so  bravely  pushed  his  ig- 
norance into  contempt  of  them  and 
almost  into  denial  of  their  real  exist- 
ence, that  the  other  things  are  real 
for  him  and  in  his  writings  to  a  degree 
almost   unexampled.      I   am   not  the 


William  Cohhett, 


•  109 


first  by  many  to  suggest  that  we  are 
too  diSuse  in  our  modern  imagination, 
that  we  are  cumbered  about  too  many 
things.  No  one  could  bring  this  accu- 
sation against  Cobbett ;  for  immense 
as  his  variety  is  in  particulars,  these 
particulars  group  themselves  under 
comparatively  few  general  heads.  I 
do  not  think  I  have  been  unjust  in 
suggesting  that  this  ideal  was  little 
more  than  the  bellyful,  that  Messer 
Gaster  was  not  only  his  first  but  his  one 
and  sufficient  master  of  arts.  He  was 
not  irreligious,  he  was  not  immoral ; 
but  his  religion  and  his  morality 
were  of  the  simplest  and  most  matter- 
of-fact  kind.  Philosophy,  sesthetics, 
literature,  the  more  abstract  sciences, 
even  refinements  of  sensual  comfort 
and  luxury  he  cared  nothing  for.  In- 
deed he  had  a  strong  dislike  to  most 
of  them.  He  must  always  have  been 
fighting  about  something ;  but  I  think 
his  polemics  might  have  been  harm- 
lessly parochial  at  another  time.  It 
is  marvellous  how  this  resolute  con- 
finement of  view  at  once  sharpens  and 
sublimates  the  eyesight  within  the 
confines.  He  has  somewhere  a  really 
beautiful  and  almost  poetical  passage 
of  enthusiasm  over  a  great  herd  of 
oxen   as   "so   much   splendid   meat." 


He  can  see  the  swells  of  the  downs, 
the  flashing  of  the  winter  bournes  as 
they  spring  from  the  turf  where  they 
have  lain  hid,  the  fantastic  outline  of 
the  oak  woods,  the  reddening  sweep  of 
the  great  autumn  fields  of  corn  as  few 
have  seen  them,  and  can  express  them 
all  with  rare  force  and  beauty  in  words. 
But  he  sees  all  these  things  conjointly 
and  primarily  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  mutton  that  the  downs  will 
breed  and  the  rivers  water,  the  faggots 
that  the  labourer  will  bring  "home  at 
evening,  the  bread  he  will  bake  and 
the  beer  he  will  brew — strictly  accord- 
ing to  the  precepts  of  Cottage  Economy, 
It  may  be  to  some  minds  a  strange 
and  almost  incredible  combination. 
It  is  not  so  to  mine,  and  I  am  sure 
that  by  dint  of  it  and  by  dint  of 
holding  himself  to  it  he  achieved  his 
actual  success  of  literary  production. 
To  believe  in  nothing  very  much,  or  in 
a  vast  number  of  things  dispersedly, 
may  be  the  secret  of  criticism  ;  but  to 
believe  in  something  definite,  were  it 
only  the  bellyful,  and  to  believe  in 
it  furiously  and  exclusively  is,  with 
almost  all  men,  the  secret  of  original 
art. 

George  Saintsbury. 


110 


THE  EXPERIENCES  OF  AN  AFRICAN  TRADER. 


It  is  but  a  short  while  since  the 
British  public  appeared  to  be  possessed 
with  a  consuming  ardour  for  enter- 
prise and  colonisation  in  the  remoter 
regions  of  the  African  Continent.  The 
blessings  of  commerce  and  civilisation 
were  everywhere  dilated  on.  Paeans 
were  sung  over  the  self-denial,  the 
patience,  the  heroism,  and  the  other 
virtues  of  African  explorers.  Mr. 
Stanley  and  his  comrades  started  in  a 
blaze  of  triumph,  and  with  the  good 
wishes  of  everybody,  on  their  expe- 
dition for  the  rescue  of  that  much- 
abused  Pasha  who  so  incontinently 
objected  to  be  rescued,  and  who,  un- 
less rumour  lies,  is  now  stealthily 
making  his  way  back  to  those  very 
provinces  whence  he  was  with  such 
vast  trouble  and  expense  withdrawn. 
The  African  fever  was  then  at  its 
height.  The  pioneers  of  trade  with 
the  dusky  aborigines  were  the  frequent 
recipients  of  titles  and  other  rewards, 
and  many  men  could  conceive  of  no 
higher  ambition  than  to  sit,  along 
with  dukes  and  marquises,  on  the 
boards  of  chartered  companies. 

But  a  change  has  come  over  the 
spirit  of  the  scene  since  the  publica- 
tion of  Mr.  Stanley's  quarrels  with 
his  subordinates.  The  jealousies,  the 
squabbles,  and  the  recriminations  of 
the  various  parties  to  that  unhappy 
dispute  have  an  entire  literature  of 
their  own,  and  people  are  growing 
heartily  sick  of  the  whole  business. 
The  result  is  a  sudden  revulsion  of 
popular  sentiment  towards  African 
enterprise,  and  the  public  now  shows, 
according  to  its  wont,  a  tendency  to 
rush  into  the  opposite  extreme.  In 
place  of  being  the  hero  of  the  hour, 
the  explorer  of  the  Dark  Continent  is 
represented  as  one  influenced  solely  by 
low  and  mercenary  motives.  His  pro- 
fessions    of    philanthropy    are    '*  all 


cant  and  humbug,"  and  serve  a  s 
cloak  for  filibustering  and  the  com- 
mission of  crimes  of  the  darkest  hue. 
Have  we  not  had  all  this,  and  more  to 
the  same  effect,  from  no  less  a  person 
than  Mr.  Henry  Labouchere,  and 
does  he  not  speak  as  one  having 
authority  1  A  plague,  then,  on  your 
philanthropic  missions  and  commercial 
enterprises  !  Let  the  noble  savage 
rest  in  his  pristine  and  picturesque  re- 
tirement. He  is  better  as  he  is. 
What  matter  though  he  starve  peri- 
odically, though  his  life  be  one  long 
struggle  with  misery  that  results 
solely  from  oppression  and  anarchy  ? 
Let  us  not  mind ;  famine  and  the 
slave-trade  are  at  least  preferable  to 
the  Bible  and  bad  rum. 

All  this  being  so,  it  is  with  a  feel- 
ing of  deep  contrition  that  I  write 
myself  down  as  one  who,  having  trav- 
elled a  good  deal  in  some  of  its  re- 
moter places,  thoroughly  believes  in 
opening  Africa  to  commerce  and  civi- 
lisation. Nay,  I  have  even  gone  so 
far  as  to  actually  take  part  (in  a 
very  humble  way,  to  be  sure)  in  the  ne- 
farious task  myself.  It  is  a  humiliating 
fact  that  only  a  short  time  ago  I  took 
a  few  shares  in  a  trading  venture 
in  the  Eastern  Soudan,  and  I  am  now 
about  to  describe  a  few  of  our  pre- 
liminary experiences.  I  say  **our" 
experiences  ;  but  I  was,  after  all,"  but 
a  subordinate  performer  in  the  little 
comedy  which  was  acted  for  the  benefit 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Red  Sea 
Littoral,  though  I  accept  my  full 
share  of  the  responsibility. 

Suakin  was  our  base  of  operations 
and  thither  I  repaired  in  the  spring 
of  last  year,  together  with  my  friend, 
Mr.  John  Tayler  Wills,  to  whose  zeal 
and  energy  our  Company  owes  its 
origin.  I  do  not  propose  to  inflict  up- 
on my  readers  a    description  of  the 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader, 


111 


queer  little  Red  Sea  port  or  its  sur- 
roundings. As  is  well  known,  it  is 
celebrated  neither  for  the  beauty  of 
its,  scenery  nor  the  salubrity  of  its 
climate,  though  in  this  latter  respect 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  has 
been  somewhat  maligned.  I  shall  en- 
deavour, therefore,  to  keep  strictly 
within  the  scope  and  title  of  the  pre- 
sent article,  and  to  confine  myself  to 
giving  an  account  of  our  trading  ex- 
periences. If,  as  I  fear,  these  are  occa- 
sionally pervaded  by  a  vein  of  comedy 
suchasisnot  usually  incidental  to  sound 
business  enterprises,  the  reason  must 
be  sought  in  the  fact  of  our  having 
commenced  operations  somewhat  pre- 
maturely, at  a  period  of  widespread 
distress,  and  before  life  and  property 
had  been  rendered  safe  in  the  interior. 
Everything  must  have  a  beginning, 
and  blunders  customarily  mark  the 
initial  steps  of  novel  undertakings. 
So  soon  as  prosperity  revives  and  the 
Dervishes  are  finally  expelled,  and  the 
inland  caravan  routes  are  rendered 
practicable  for  traders,  commercial  en- 
terprise in  the  Eastern  Soudan  will 
show  very  different  results. 

The  apostle  of  African  develop- 
ment should,  in  my  humble  opinion, 
enter  on  his  self-appointed  task  in  a 
spirit  of  philanthropy  tempered  by  the 
more  or  less  remote  prospects  of  divi- 
dends. Such,  I  believe,  was  the  spirit 
in  which  Mr.  Wills  went  to  work. 
For  myself,  it  would  be  wiser  to 
admit, — it  would  probably  be  futile  to 
deny, — that  I  was  actuated  by  those 
meaner  and  more  degrading  motives 
with  which  pioneers  of  commerce  in 
savage  countries  are  now  commonly 
credited.  And  yet  I  am  not  conscious 
of  having  committed  any  overt  act  of 
startling  wickedness.  I  supplied  the 
noble  Hadendowa  with  no  bad  gin  or 
rum,  or  indeed  with  spirits  of  any 
description.  I  made  no  attempts  to 
supersede  his  native  home-grown  re- 
ligion by  articles  of  spurious  foreign 
manufacture.  I  believe  we  were  guilty 
of  importing  Manchester  goods,  but  I 
am  not  aware  that  grey  shirtings  have 
any  particularly  corrupting  influence 


on  the  native  mind.  We  had  a  num- 
ber of  what  the  Police  Court  reporters 
call  "  coloured  persons  *'  in  our  employ, 
but  we  did  not  treat  them  after  the 
fashion  set  by  the  Emin  Relief  Expe- 
dition. We  did  not  place  intolerable 
loads  upon  them,  except  bags  of  dhurra 
for  their  own  consumption,  or  flog  them 
severely  when  they  sank  under  their 
burdens.  We  assisted  at  no  cannibal 
entertainments.  Nor,  so  far  as  I  am 
aware,  did  either  of  us  go  about  show- 
ing our  teeth,  grinning,  or  "  barking 
like  a  dog  "  at  our  retainers.  I  never 
detected  Mr.  Wills  prodding  native 
ladies  in  the  ribs  with  an  iron-pointed 
Cyprus  staff.  I  certainly  did  not  do 
so  myself.  Yet  these,  I  believe,  are 
now  accepted  as  the  regular  methods 
of  African  adventurers,  and  the  fact 
that  we  did  not  employ  them  is  pro- 
bably due  solely  to  our  being  new  to 
the  business. 

On  landing  at  Suakin  we  found  a 
gallant  bevy  of  native  chieftains  of 
various  tribes,  both  great  and  small, 
who,  together  with  several  hundreds 
of  their  followers,  had  collected  in  the 
town  to  await  our  arrival.  There 
were  fuzzy-wigged  Hadendowas  and 
turbaned  Amarars,  many  of  whom  had 
fought  against  the  English  in  the  cam- 
paigns of  1884-5.  There  were  agri- 
culturists from  the  Tokar  Delta,  and 
even  from  places  so  far  distant  as 
Filik  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Kassala. 
There  were  strapping  mountaineers 
from  the  hill  country  near  Sinkat, 
tribesmen  from  the  coast  regions  to 
the  north  and  from  the  territory  bor- 
dering on  the  Suakin-Berber  route. 
Most  of  the  branches  of  the  Ethiopian 
race  seemed  to  be  represented  in  the 
dusky  throng  who,  with  up-turned 
faces  and  eyes  glistening  with  expecta- 
tion, stood  congregated  round  the 
Company's  house.  The  news  that 
"  the  Company  was  coming  "  had  been 
spread  abroad  by  over-zealous  and 
officious  tongues,  and  I  fear  unduly 
great  expectations  had  been  formed 
of  the  benefits  which  were  to  ensue 
from  its  establishment.  Visions  of 
bounteous  distributions  of  food  floated 


112 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader. 


before  the  eyes  of  these  poor  creatures, 
many  of  whom  had  been  for  months 
past  on  the  verge  of  starvation.  All 
were  possessed  with  one  idea  and  one 
only,  namely,  to  get  as  much  dhurra 
(white  millet,  the  staple  food  of  the 
country)  out  of  the  Company  as  possi- 
ble. The  dreadful  famine  which  deci- 
mated the  Eastern  Soudan  during  the 
whole  of  last  year  is  too  well  known 
to  need  any  further  allusion  here. 
The  knowledge  that  relief  was  being 
served  out  in  Suakin  naturally  caused 
a  large  influx  of  natives  from  the  in- 
terior. Every  day  our  house  was  be- 
sieged by  crowds  of  Arabs,  who  had 
been  sent,  or  had  come  of  their  own 
accord,  in  the  hope  of  getting  bread 
for  their  famished  wives  and  little 
ones. 

"  If  you  are  willing,"  wrote  a 
friendly  sheikh,  "  to  give  us  the 
necessary  dhurra,  do  so ;  if  not,  God 
is  our  aid."  In  fact,  instructions 
seemed  to  have  been  universally  is- 
sued :  "  Ask  for  the  Soudan  Trading 
Company's  dhurra,  and  see  that  you 
get  it."  And  to  tell  the  truth,  they 
did  get  it  from  Mr.  Wills,  to  the 
extent  of  200,000  lbs.  and  upwards. 
The  bulk  of  the  distributions  were 
made  as  advances  in  consideration 
of  the  sheikhs  signing  contracts  for 
the  cultivation  of  cotton  on  joint 
account  with  the  Company.  A  large 
amount,  however,  of  the  grain  thus 
distributed  by  way  of  advances  was  in 
reality  gratuitous,  and  the  return,  if 
any,  upon  the  outlay  will  have  to  be 
made  in  another  and  better  world  than 
this.  Bread  was  also  served  out  daily 
to  the  famine-stricken  poor  at  the  city 
gates  by  the  local  Relief  Committee. 
An  excellent  impression  was  thus 
created  among  the  natives,  who  began 
to  recognise  for  the  first  time  that  the 
English,  in  spite  of  some  previous  mis- 
deeds in  the  country,  were  after  all 
their  best  friends.  Many  were  in  this 
way  gained  over  to  the  side  of  the 
Government,  and  the  authority  of  the 
Mahdists  was  undermined.  It  is  most 
unfortunate  that  this  good  impression 
should  have  been  in  a  measure  weak- 


ened last  autumn  by  the  cruel  decrees 
of  the  Government  expelling  the  poor 
starving  creatures  from  the  town,  and 
stopping  the  trade  in  grain  with  the 
interior,  by  which  terrible  suffering 
was  needlessly  caused.  But  I  am  devi- 
ating into  the  thorny  paths  of  political 
controversy  which  are  quite  beyond 
the  scope  of  this  paper. 

We  had  much  talk  with  the  sheikhs 
of  the  different  tribes  and,  as  may  be 
imagined,  we  gained  much  interesting 
information.  The  burden  of  their  song 
was  that  the  Dervishes  were  the  curse 
of  the  country,  and  they  would  to 
Heaven  they  could  get  rid  of  them ; 
that  the  times  were  very  bad  and 
distress  universal ;  that  no  real  im- 
provement in  the  state  of  the  country 
could  be  expected  so  long  as  the  Mah- 
dists were  in  power ;  and,  finally,  that 
they  liked  the  English  and  all  wished 
"to  serve  the  Company."  This  last 
phrase  surprised  me  a  good  deal  at 
first.  I  had  heard  so  much  of  the 
magnificent  independence  of  the 
haughty  Hadendowa  that  I  had  ima- 
gined he  would  sooner  die  than  sacrifice 
his  liberty.  Yet  here  they  were  evi- 
dently ready  to  sell  themselves  and 
their  services  to  the  highest  bidder. 
If  the  English  did  not  employ  them, 
then  they  would  go  to  the  Italians. 
Famine,  however,  is  a  hard  taskmaster, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  coast  tribes  has 
been  entirely  quenched  by  their  suffer- 
ings. So  much  the  better  for  the 
prospects  of  the  future  pacification  and 
progress  of  the  Soudan.  The  natives 
have  further  learned  to  regard  the 
English  with  very  different  feelings 
from  those  which  animated  them  a  few 
years  ago,  and  it  only  requires  justice 
and  good  government  to  make  these 
sentiments  permanent.  One  white- 
haired  old  gentleman  from  Filik,  who 
was  a  large  landowner  and  leading 
sheikh  of  the  great  Hadendowa  clan, 
waxed  quite  pathetic  on  the  subject. 
He  said  he  had  known  Gordon  and  had 
served  under  him,  and  that  he  had 
a  great  regard  for  the  English.  His 
country  at  Kassala  was  almost  empty 
owing  to  the  famine,  and  the  people 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader, 


113 


there  had  no  work.  They  did  not  like 
to  beg  for  food,  but  preferred  to  take 
it  in  the  form  of  advances.  What 
they  wanted  was  to  have  the  Company 
as  their  father,  and  if  necessary,  he 
said  he  would  go  home  with  us  and  see 
all  the  big  aristocrats  and  the  King  of 
England  I  I  noticed,  by  the  way,  that 
all  these  people  showed  a  very  proper 
filial  feeling  in  the  way  in  which  they 
looked  to  their  "  father"  to  feed  them 
and  supply  them  with  money.  Per- 
sonally, I  must  admit  that  paternity 
on  so  large  a  scale  was  a  responsibility 
which  would  have  weighed  heavily 
upon  me.  Still,  the  sensation  of  quasi- 
suzerainty  which  their  professions  con- 
veyed was  novel  and  not  unpleasing. 

One  of  the  first  events  of  import- 
ance after  our  arrival  was  the  return 
of  one  of  our  native  traders,  whom 
our  agent  had  despatched  to  Berber 
and  Khartoum  about  three  months 
previously.  He  was  a  medium-sized, 
mild-mannered  Ethiop,  with  a  trans- 
parently honest  face,  big  eyes,  and  a 
snub  nose.  He  rejoiced  in  the  name 
of  Mohammed  Achmed  Waharda  Aila, 
and  he  boasted  himself  a  shereef  (de- 
scendant of  the  Prophet)  of  the  Amarar 
tribe.  In  obedience  to  Kismet  and 
Osman  Digna's  decree  enforcing 
shaven  crowns,  he  had  sacrificed  his 
touzled  fuzzy  wig  and  wore  in  its 
place  a  parti-coloured  turban.  The 
account  he  gave  of  his  stewardship 
was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  highly  en- 
tertaining. Commerce  in  these  out-of- 
the-way  parts  is  conducted  upon 
strangely  primitive  principles  accord- 
ing to  our  European  notions.  First 
of  all  you  have  to  catch  your  trader. 
When  you  think  you  have  got  hold  of 
a  fairly  honest  man  you  supply  him 
with  a  good  stock  of  selected  samples 
of  grey  shirtings,  buy  him  a  camel  or 
two  for  the  journey,  and  start  him  off. 
These  goods  he  exchanges  up  country 
for  gold  or  silver,  gum,  ivory,  musk, 
frankincense,  myrrh,  or  other  produce 
of  the  interior.  Of  course  you  have  to 
trust  entirely  to  the  man's  honesty  in 
the  account  he  renders  on  his  return, 
and  I  believe  experience  shows  that 

No.  386. — VOL.  Lxv. 


the  confidence  thus  reposed  is  very 
seldom  abused.  They  also  tell  me  that 
some  people  have  amassed  colossal 
fortunes  in  this  way.  I  can  only  say 
that  as  yet  I  am  not  one  of  those 
fortunate  persons. 

Waharda  Aila  appeared  to  have  got 
along  pretty  well  as  far  as  Berber, 
the  monotony  of  the  journey  being 
broken  only  by  an  attack  from  some 
marauding  Baggaras  who  stole  one  of 
his  camels  and  seven  horugas  (pieces) 
of  grey  shirting.  This,  however,  is 
one  of  the  more  commonplace  incidents 
of  Eastern  travel  and  is  scarcely  worth 
recording.  These  Baggaras  are  a  war- 
like freebooting  tribe  of  Kordofan 
Arabs,  with  a  great  deal  of  black  blood 
in  their  veins.  As  The  Times  put  it 
they  "  combine  professional  brigandage 
with  a  burning  faith,"  and,  together 
with  the  Jaaleens  from  near  Dongola, 
they  form  the  mainstay  of  Osman 
Digna's  army. 

Arriving  at  Berber,  Waharda  Aila 
went  straight  to  the  house  of  one  En 
Noor  Greffeiyeh,  the  Hakeemdar,  or 
Director  of  Customs  to  the  Mahdi.  To 
this  official  he  was  the  bearer  of  pre- 
sents and  a  letter  from  our  agent  in 
Suakin.  En  Noor  received  him  (and 
the  presents)  with  open  arms,  and  was 
good  enough  to  write  us  a  letter  in 
reply.  In  this  document  the  Hakeem- 
dar dilated  upon  the  high  regard  in 
which  he  held  his  friends  of  the  Sou- 
dan Trading  Company.  He  expressed 
the  hope  that  we  might  some  day  join 
the  true  faith,  in  which  alone,  he 
assured  us,  we  could  expect  to  find 
peace  and  happiness  both  in  this  world 
and  in  the  next.  As  a  proof  of  his 
esteem  he  had  taken  four  hundred 
dollars  off  our  messenger,  and  I  rather 
gathered  from  the  context  that  he 
hoped  this  was  not  the  last  time  he 
might  have  the  opportunity  of  doing 
so.  The  following  are  some  extracts 
from  the  Hakeemdar' s  epistle. 

From  En  Noor  Greffeiyeh,  son  of  En 
Noor  Ibrahim,  the  Director  of  Customs  at 
Berber,  to  my  friends  in  God  and  the 
Prophet,  greeting. 

I  nave  received  your  letter,  and  the  foui 

I 


114 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader, 


boxes  of  tea  and  the  box  of  sugar  and  the 
carpet  have  arrived.     May  God  give  you 
back  tenfold.    Your  present  is  accepted 
by  us,  but  in  future  do  not  send  us  letters. 
[He  was  afraid  of  their  compromising  him 
as  having  accepted  bribes  from  the  infideL] 
On  the  arrival  of  your  people  the  Khalifa 
directed  that  they  should  all  go  to  the 
Bug*aa  (Treasury)  to  buy  ivory,  and  in 
consequence  of  your  request  that  I  should 
care  for  them  I  sent  them  with  a  letter  to 
the  Director-General  of  the  common  purse 
at  the  Bug^day  recommending  them  to  him, 
and  there  they  sold  their  merchandise  ; 
and   they  might  have  obtained  ivory  if 
they  had  wished,  but  in  consequence  of 
my  recommendation  they  were  not  forced 
to  take  either  gum  or  ivory,  as  it  [the 
ivory,  presumably]  had  been  all  under 
water  and  would   nave  been  useless  for 
you.     Now  we  send  you  a  present  of  one 
sword  and  a  uniform,  and  we  hope  you 
will  accept  them  and  have  fortune  with 
them ;  and  we  have  taken  from  your  mes- 
senger Mohammed  Achmed  Waharda  Aila 
four  hundred  dollars,  and  we  trust  you 
will  repay  him  [a  pretty  cool  request,  I 
thought]  ;  and  when  he  returns  here  again 
with  goods  it  will  be  deducted  from  the 
duty  upon  them.     And  as  regards  mer- 
chandise here,  cotton  piece-goods  are  very 
bad  to  sell  [here  follows  advice  about  trade 
which   is  not   worth   recording]  ...   Be 
not  afraid  but    rely   on   our  friendship. 
Destroy  this  when  you  have  read  it,  for 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  write  to  each 
other,  but  as  you  have  been  kind  and  good 
to  us,  we  write.     The  peace. 

The  elaborate  precautions  taken  by 
the   wily   Hakeemdar   to  avoid   com- 
promising himself  failed  to  avert  the 
doom  which  awaited  him,  and  which,  I 
have  little  doubt,  he  richly  merited. 
Being    detected,    not    many    months 
later,  in  the  peculation  of  certain  dues 
which  he  had  intended  to  divert  from 
the  pockets  of  the  Mahdi  to  his  own, 
the  Khalifa  ordered    his  head   to  be 
chopped  off,  and  the  sentence  was  duly 
carried  into  effect.     I  should  add  that 
the  sword  and  uniform  arrived  in  due 
course,  and  the  latter  lies  before  me 
as  I  write.     It  is  a   long  white  cotton 
garment  covered  with  patches  of  red, 
blue,  and  black  cloth,  which  I  believe 
are  marks  of  distinction    denoting  an 
officer    of  high  rank   in  the   Dervish 
army. 


From   Berber  our  trader  proceeded 
to  Khartoum,  and  he  gave  us  a  harrow- 
ing account   of  the  traces  of  ruin  and 
desolation  left  by  the  twin  destroyers, 
war  and  famine,  in    the   districts  he 
traversed.      The   country  was  almost 
denuded  of   its  inhabitants,  and  such 
few   as  remained    were   perishing    of 
hunger.     At   Metammeh    not  a   soul 
was   left.     The  way  was  strewn  with 
human   skulls    and   bones.      All   the 
sakiyehs,  or  waterwheels,  were  silent, 
for  their  owners  were  no  more.     At 
Khartoum  itself  widows  and   orphans 
were  in  the  majority  :  dhurra  was  at 
eight  times  its  normal  price  ;  and  even 
Slatin  Bey,  Gordon's    sole   surviving 
lieutenant,  was  begging  for  food.  Here 
"Waharda     Aila     was     subjected     to 
further    extortion   at    the    hands   of 
the  Mahdist  officials.     A  gentleman  of 
the  name  of    Ibrahim  Walad  Etlan, 
who  appeared  to  be  a  sort  of  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  to  the  Khalifa,  re- 
quired baksheesh  at  his  hands,  though, 
to  do  him  justice,  he  was  more  moderate 
in  his  demands  than  the  Hakeemdar 
of  Berber.     But  then  neither   did   he 
send  us  a  sword  and  uniform  nor  a 
nice  letter  full  of  pretty  compliments. 
Circumstances  being  so  unfavourable 
for  trade,  Waharda  made  no  great  stay 
at    Khartoum.     Having    finally    dis- 
posed of  the  remainder  of  his  merchan- 
dise, he  returned    by  easy  stages   to 
Suakin,  dropping  a   few  more  dollars 
on  the  way  at  Handoub,  which  were 
exacted  from  him  by   Achmed  Mah- 
moud,  the  Dervish  commander  of  that 
stronghold. 

After  such  an  interesting  narrative 
it  seemed  almost  impertinent  to  ask, 
but  I  did  venture  to  inquire  what  he 
had  to  show  for  the  grey  shirtings  and 
camels  and  other  equipment  where- 
with he  had  been  endowed  prior  to  his 
departure  up  country.  He  replied 
that  he  had  got  some  gold  in  rings,  a 
large  horn  of  musk,  and  an  Abyssinian 
woman. 

"  Abyssinian     woman  ? "     said     I, 
'* what's  she  for?" 

"  Oh  !      I     bought     her,"     replied 
"Waharda  Aila,  in  no  whit  abashed. 


The  Eocperiences  of  an  African  Trader. 


115 


"Bought  her?  Why  did  you  buy 
her,  and  where  is  she  1 " 

He  said  that  he  had  left  the  lady  in 
the  hills  at  the  back  of  Handoub  (a 
most  ungallant  proceeding,  I  thought) 
for  fear  of  Achmed  Mahmoud,  who 
would  most  assuredly  have  taken  and 
appropriated  her  for  his  own  use.  She 
would  probably  follow  him  into  Suakin, 
he  added,  or  else  he  would  himself  go 
and  fetch  her,  when  we  should  have 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  for  ourselves 
the  latest  addition  to  the  live  stock  of 
the  Soudan  Trading  Company. 

Gradually  the  real  nature  of  the 
transaction  in  which  we  had  been 
vicariously  engaged  dawned  upon  me, 
and  the  truth  presented  itself  to  my 
mind  in  all  its  naked  hideousness. 
Quifacit  per  alium  facit  per  se  is  a  fine 
old  legal  maxim  which,  in  the  days 
when  I  was  at  the  Bar,  I  often  heard 
Her  Majesty's  Judges  roll  forth  with 
portentous  solemnity  from  the  Bench. 
On  this  principle  beyond  question  we 
had  been  constructively  guilty  of  slave- 
trading.  We,  philanthropic  pioneers 
in  the  vanguard  of  commerce  and 
civilisation,  would  be  branded  and 
pointed  at  with  the  finger  of  scorn  as 
having  actually  taken  part  in  the  vile 
traffic  in  human  flesh.  It  was  terrible  ! 
I  pictured  to  myself  the  Anti-Slavery 
Society  up  in  arms  against  us,  and  the 
Aborigines*  Protectionists  foaming  at 
the  mouth  with  indignation,  and  I 
fairly  staggered  under  the  blow.  I 
had  received  the  news  of  the  theft  of 
our  dollars  by  En  Noor  and  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  at  Khar- 
toum without  blanching  :  I  had  borne 
with  stoical  indifference  the  loss  of  the 
camel  and  the  grey  shirtings  ;  but 
this  last  was  too  much. 

Summoning  all  my  fortitude,  I 
faintly  inquired  how  this  atrocity  had 
come  to  be  perpetrated  in  our  name. 
And  then  the  murder  came  out.  It  ap- 
peared that  our  agent  in  Suakin,  who  to 
his  other  virtues  seemed  to  add  a  vein 
of  knight-errantry,  had  given  Waharda 
Aila  orders,  if  he  got  the  chance,  to 
purchase  the  freedom  of  any  of  the 
white    women    now   in    captivity    at 


Khartoum.  It  is  well  known  that  at 
the  time  of  General  Gordon's  death, 
when  the  capital  of  the  Soudan  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Mahdists,  several 
white  people  resident  in  the  town  were 
taken  prisoners  and  sold  into  slavery. 
Among  them  were  several  young  high- 
bom  Italian  ladies  who  had  gone  out  as 
nuns  in  the  service  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church.  Splendid  creatures  they  were 
too,  I  was  assured  by  an  impression- 
able Suakinee  who  had  seen  them 
pass  through  the  town  some  years 
before,  with  lovely  faces  and  aristo- 
cratic mien.  After  the  fall  of  Khar- 
toum these  nuns  are  said  to  have  gone 
through  the  ceremony  of  marriage  with 
some  of  the  Greek  captives  in  order  to 
save  themselves  from  being  sold  into 
the  harems  of  the  Mahdists,  and,  for 
all  that  is  known  to  the  contrary,  they 
are  still  alive  in  the  town.  There  was 
also  said  to  be  kept  in  durance  vile  there 
an  old  lady  who  did  General  Gordon's 
washing  during  the  siege,  and  she,  it 
was  supposed,  might  be  bought  out. 
If  we  could  not  purchase  an  Italian 
nun,  by  all  means  let  us  liberate  a 
washerwoman.  Well,  Waharda  Aila 
was  told  to  procure,  if  he  could,  the 
freedom  of  any  or  all  of  these  dis- 
tressed damsels.  But  he  maintained, 
and  stuck  to  his  point  with  great 
pertinacity,  that  he  was  not  restricted 
by  his  instructions  to  "  white  "  women. 
His  orders  were,  he  said,  to  liberate 
"  Christian  women."  Now,  it  happens 
that  the  Abyssinians  are  Christians, 
and  our  excellent  trader  had  evidently 
made  use  of  the  discretion  given  him 
to  purchase  himself  a  suitable  wife. 

We  asked  him  how  much  he  had 
paid  for  her.  He  calmly  replied, 
"  Two  hundred  dollars,  and  two  dollars 
brokerage."  The  cold-blooded  business- 
like air  in  which  he  uttered  these 
words  was  staggering.  I  was  not  aware 
before  that  they  had  brokers  in  those 
outlandish  parts.  I  omitted  to  ask 
him  if  there  were  any  stockjobbers  as 
well,  but  the  "two  dollars  brokerage" 
smacked  so  strongly  of  my  native 
haunts  in  the  region  of  Capel  Court 
that  I  should  hardly  have  been  sur- 

I  2 


116 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader, 


prised  if  he  had  added  an  extra  charge 
for  "  stamp  and  fee." 

A  few  days  later  Waharda  Aila 
went  and  brought  the  girl  into  Suakin. 
It  was  just  my  luck  that  I  should  be 
absent  on  a  shooting  expedition  when 
she  arrived,  but  Mr.  Wills  describes 
her  as  young,  charming,  lady-like, 
with  pretty  brown  eyes,  regular  fea- 
tures, and  an  oval  face.  She  had  like- 
wise an  elegant  figure  and  a  voice  of 
singular  sweetness.  I  fancy  that  we 
could  have  sold  her  over  in  Jeddah  at 
a  figure  which  would  have  given  us  a 
handsome  profit  on  the  bargain.  Only 
I  am  not  quite  sure  if  she  had  had  the 
distemper,  —  I  mean  the  small-pox. 
This,  I  ought  perhaps  to  explain, 
makes  a  considerable  difference  in  the 
price  of  this  class  of  goods,  as  when 
they  have  once  had  the  disease  they 
are  considered  secure  against  a  second 
attack.  She  was  the  widow  of  an 
Abyssinian  colonel,  and  had  been 
taken  prisoner  at  her  country  house 
by  a  band  of  Dervish  raiders  who 
had  killed  her  two  little  children  and 
sold  her  into  slavery.  She  appeared 
to  have  conceived  in  the  course  of 
their  long  journey  down  to  the  sea- 
coast  a  genuine  attachment  for  Wa- 
harda Aila,  and  though  in  Suakin  he 
was  torn  from  her  embraces  by  the 
action  of  a  ruthless  executive,  I  sin- 
cerely trust  that  their  enforced  part- 
ing will  not  be  for  ever. 

It  was  somewhat  embarrassing  to 
have  a  young  woman  suddenly  thrown 
on  your  hands  in  this  unceremonious 
fashion,  but  Mr.  Wills  was  equal  to 
the  occasion.  In  foreign  parts,  when 
in  doubt  go  to  the  Consul.  Accord- 
ingly our  newest  purchase  was  taken 
round  to  Mr.  Barnham,  Her  Britannic 
Majesty's  Consul  at  Suakin,  who  en- 
trusted her  to  the  care  of  an  Abys- 
sinian residing  in  the  town,  and  she 
lodged  with  him  for  the  space  of  some 
months.  As  soon  as  the  Egyptian 
authorities  got  wind  of  the  matter 
they  promptly  arrested  Waharda 
Aila  and  lodged  him  in  the  town- 
gaol  on  the  charge  of  slave-trading, 
and    it    was     with     some     difficulty 


that  we  eventually  procured  his 
release. 

Before  quitting  this  interesting  topic 
of  native  ladies  and  their  admirers,  I 
may  mention  the  following  curious 
custom  which  prevails  among  the 
tribes  of  the  Eastern  Soudan.  When 
there  are  two  rival  suitors  for  the 
hand  of  a  *  Hadendowa  beauty  they 
commonly  agree  to  decide  the  issue  by 
a  peculiar  kind  of  duel.  The  weapons 
are  heavy  kourbashes  of  hippopotamus 
hide,  and  the  combatants,  stripped  to 
the  waist,  lay  on  until  one  of  them 
sinks  exhausted  and  bleeding  to  the 
ground.  The  fair  prize  herself  looks 
on,  and  occasionally  intervenes  and 
puts  an  end  to  the  fight.  Dr.  Junker 
alluding  to  this  custom  {Travels  in 
Africa,  p.  57)  says  that  the  victor  in 
these  combats  acquires  "  the  honour- 
able title  of  Akhu-el-benat,  or  Defender 
of  the  Village  Maiden,  of  which  he  is 
not  a  little  proud."  We  never  had  an 
opportunity  of  witnessing  one  of  these 
duels,  though  we  were  told  that  one 
had  taken  place  in  Suakin  a  few  days 
before  we  arrived. 

Two  or  three  others  of  our  traders 
came  in  soon  after  Waharda  Aila. 
None  of  their  experiences  were  so 
entertaining  as  his,  but  they  all  had 
similar  tales  to  tell  of  robbery,  official 
and  unofficial,  and  of  the  lamentable 
state  of  things  up  country.  They 
brought  back  money  and  various  odds 
and  ends  of  merchandise,  but  their 
transactions  showed  little  profit.  Trad- 
ing with  the  interior,  however,  was  a 
matter  of  secondary  importance  in  our 
eyes.  What  chiefly  occupied  our  at- 
tention was  the  cotton  crop  which  was 
said  to  be  growing  for  us  in  the  Tokar 
Delta,  and  for  the  planting  of  which 
our  agent  had  supplied  the  natives 
with  seed.  The  cultivation  of  cotton 
is  unquestionably  the  most  promising 
and  profitable  industry  in  the  Soudan. 
The  plant  was  introduced  from  there 
into  Egypt  by  Mehemet  Ali,  and  ex- 
cellent results  were  obtained  from  its 
cultivation  in  the  districts  round 
Suakin  before  the  outbreak  of  the 
rebellion.     There  are  estimated  to  be 


The  Esffperiences  of  an  Afrmiii  Trader. 


117 


over  half-a-million  acres  of  fertile  land 
suitable  for  cotton  growing  in  the 
Tokar  Delta  alone,  which  in  the  rainy 
season  is  copiously  irrigated  by  the 
waters  of  the  Khor  Baraka. 

It  had  been  represented  to  us  that 
we  should  be  able  to  go  down  to  Tokar 
to  look  after  the  crop  ourselves.     As 
a   matter    of    fact,   however,    though 
Osman  Digna  gave  us  permission  to 
trade   with    the   inhabitants  he   per- 
emptorily  forbade  Christians   to   set 
foot  within  the  Delta,  and  commerce 
was  obviously  impossible  under  such 
conditions.     The  cotton  was  there  un- 
doubtedly, but  how  much  of  it  were 
we  likely  to  get  %     It  struck  me  that 
the  Dervishes  were  not  likely  to  let 
us  have  much  in  any  case,  but,  as  it 
turned  out,  the  crop  never  came  to 
maturity.      According    to    what    the 
natives  told  us  it  was  getting  on  very 
nicely,   when    lo  I    a    great    cloud   of 
locusts  issued  forth,  covered  the  face 
of  the  earth  generally  and  our  cotton- 
land   in  particular,  and  stripped  the 
plants  perfectly  bare.      Furthermore 
it  was  said  that,  some  of  the  culti- 
vators having  omitted  to  fence  in  their 
land  properly,   what   the  locusts  ate 
not,  the  camels  devoured.     I  was  not 
aware  that  the  camel  fed  upon  cotton, 
though  doubtless  nothing  comes  amiss 
to  that  beast's  voracious  maw,  from  a 
brass-headed  nail  to  a  tin  lobster-can. 
After   blowing  themselves   out  with 
our  cotton  the  locusts  appear  to  have 
taken  wing  eastwards.    Surfeited,  how- 
ever, with  over-much  good  living,  they 
fell  in  a  heap  into  the  Red  Sea,  cover- 
ing its  waves  so  that  a  man  might, 
metaphorically  speaking,  have  walked 
dry-shod  from  one  shore  to  another; 
and  the  air  was  filled  with  a  savour 
too  horrible    for  words    to   describe. 
Was  it  not  written  in  the  chronicles 
of  the  St,  Ja/tne8^8  Gazette  and  other 
newspapers    that    a    vessel    passing 
through  the  Red  Sea  homeward  bound 
in  the  summer  of  last  year  steamed 
for  three  whole  days  through  a  com- 
pact mass   of    the  corpses  of    these 
insects  ?    This  may  have  been  a  slight 
exaggeration^   but    there   can  be  no 


doubt  that  this  blight  of  locusts  was 
a  most  extraordinary  one,  and  from 
all  accounts  the  visitation  was  entirely 
without  parallel  in  recent  years. 

We    received   from    time    to    time 
throughout  the  year  letters,  some  of 
which     were    curious    specimens    of 
Oriental  style,  from  native  chiefs  and 
merchants.      Many     of      them      are 
interesting  as  throwing  light  on  the 
events  which  led  up  to  the  Egyptian 
advance    and    occupation    of    Tokar. 
The  writers  all  professed  themselves 
anxious   to  trade   with  and  "serve*' 
the     Company,    but     they    lived    in 
perpetual  dread  of  their  masters  the 
Dervishes.     Hence   political  allusions 
were  not  very  frequent  in  these  letters, 
OTU"   correspondents    being    afraid    of 
compromising  themselves  in  case  the 
documents  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
Mahdists.     The  slightest  suspicion  of 
an    intention     to     go    over     to    the 
Egyptians  would  inevitably  have  been 
visited   with    death,    or    torture    and 
mutilation.     Just  before  the  battle  of 
Tokar     Osman     Digna      decapitated 
several  sheikhs  who  were  supposed  to 
be  leaning  to  the  side  of  the  Govern- 
ment.    His  tyranny  and  barbarity  had 
long  been  causing  a  strong  feeling  of 
discontent    with    the    rule    of     the 
Dervishes,  when  the  famine  came  and 
brought    matters    to    a    head.     The 
growing    spirit    of    disaffection    was 
sedulously  fanned  by  Mr.  Wills,  who 
lost  no  opportunity  of  pointing  out  the 
advantages,  pecuniary  and  otherwise, 
which  would  follow  from  the  expulsion 
of  Osman  and  his  emirs.     These  repre- 
sentations made  a  great  impression, 
especially  as  the  moral  was  usually 
pointed  with   copious  distributions  of 
dhurra,    I  was  not  surprised,  therefore, 
when   in  the   summer    an  offer  was 
made  by  some  of  the  sheikhs  to  raise 
a  large  force  to  drive  out  the  Dervishes, 
if  only  the  Company  would  supply  them 
with  food.     This  offer  was  reported  to 
the   Government,    and    to    any    one 
conversant    with    the    state    of    the 
country    and   the  wishes  and  aspira- 
tions  of  the   natives,  it  was  evident 
that    the    times   were    ripe   for    the 


118 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader^ 


advance  from  Suakin  which  the 
authorities  so  wisely  determined  on. 
The  best  proof  of  the  sentiments  of  the 
coast  tribes  on  the  subject  of  a  change 
of  government  lies  in  the  fact  that 
none  of  them  fought  against  the 
Egyptians  at  Tok'ar,  and  that  the  news 
of  the  victory  was  received  with 
general  rejoicing. 

One  of  our  most  frequent  corre- 
spondents was  one  Seyed  Khamisi,  a 
merchant  of  Tokar,  who,  having 
started  life  as  a  pedlar,  a  walad  el  terek 
or  son  of  the  road,  had  by  superior 
cunning  and  industry  gained  a  leading 
position  among  the  native  merchants. 
He  used  to  talk  very  pompously  about 
his  influence  in  the  Delta,  the  entire 
trade  of  which  he  professed  to  hold  in 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  The  following 
are  extracts  from  one  of  his  more 
characteristic  letters.  We  had  written 
to  him  asking  whether  we  could  go 
down  to  Tokar  in  person  : 

I  informed  Taha  el  Magdub  of  your  wish 
and  he  has  no  objection,  but  he  fears  some 
of  the  badly  educated  people,  and  he  de- 
sires when  El  Emir  Osman  Abu  Bakr 
Digna  arrives  to  show  your  letter  to  him : 
and  when  our  hearts  are  easy  we  will 
write  to  you.  One  lion  can  control  a 
thousand  foxes,  but  a  thousand  foxes  can- 
not control  one  lion.  So,  when  the  lion 
[Osman  Digna]  comes  he  will  distinguish 
between  right  and  wrong,  and  between  the 
weak  and  the  strong,  and  you  will  be 
satisfied  and  your  requirements  executed. 
As  for  the  merchandise  and  cotton-seed 
and  its  sowing,  we  inform  you  that  this 
has  been  agreed  upon  by  the  order  of  the 
Lord  of  All,  El  Khalifa  el  Mahdi  (peace 
be  on  his  name)  and  of  all  his  agents  and 
sub-agents. 

The  phrase  "  badly  educated  people  " 
would  seem  to  have  referred  to  the 
fanatical  emirs  whose  thoughts  were 
not  of  trading  and  the  things  of  this 
life,  but  of  the  joys  of  Paradise  after 
death  in  battle  with  the  Kafirs.  For 
such  pig-headed  bigotry  and  in- 
difference to  worldly  interests  Seyed 
Khamisi  had  the  prof  oundest  contempt. 
**  As  for  the  emirs,"  he  wrote  in  a  sub- 
sequent letter,  **  nothing  is  too  silly 
for  them.     All  they  want  is  to  die,  no 


matter  how,  as  they  want  to  go  to 
Paradise,  either  by  gunshot  or  star- 
vation. But  I,  and  many  who  are 
like  me,  who  have  wives  and  children, 
— we  do  not  want  to  die.  We  want 
to  live,  and  to  eat  and  drink  every  day, 
and  to  trade,  and  to  better  the  con- 
dition of  the  poor.*'  Another  sheikh, 
who  was  anxious  to  enter  into  trading 
relations  with  the  Company,  expressed 
himself  similarly  in  the  summer  on 
the  subject  of  the  Dervish  rulers. 
"  Wallah  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  we  are  all 
grateful  to  the  Company.  We  will 
obey  and  serve  you,  and  we  wished  to 
trade  with  you,  but  our  emirs  (may  God 
abolish  them  !)  put  every  obstacle  in 
our  way." 

Moral  reflections  were  scattered 
about  some  of  Seyed  Khamisi' s  epistles, 
such  as  :  "  My  friend,  the  liar  will  not 
prosper.  His  time  is  short,  and  he 
will  inherit  baseness  and  condemnation 
and  black  faces  among  his  fellow- 
creatures.*'  He  further  assured  us 
that  the  growing  of  cotton  was  a  large 
business  and  required  trustworthy 
agents  like  himself,  "  men  who  respect 
themselves,  and  have  property,  and  like 
gain."  None  the  less  his  effusions 
showed  throughout  the  craft  and 
tortuousness  which  seem  almost  in- 
separable from  the  Oriental  mind.  I 
do  not  know  where  Homer  located  his 
'*  blameless  Ethiopians,"  but  I  feel  very 
sure  it  cannot  have  been  in  the  Tokar 
Delta  ;  for,  unless  the  children  of  Ham 
have  altered  strangely  for  the  worse 
since  his  day,  the  epithet  seems  most 
inappropriate. 

There  was  one  letter  that  we  re- 
ceived, however,  which  was  of  an 
entirely  different  character,  and, 
though  it  is  of  earlier  date  than  the 
others,  I  think  it  deserves  repro- 
duction in  full.  Some  of  the  sentences 
breathe  a  spirit  of  fervent  Moslem 
piety,  and  there  is  a  fine  Covenanter- 
like ring  about  it  throughout.  One  of 
the  principal  writers,  Abu  Girgeh,  was 
known  to  us  as  a  brave  soldier  and 
sincere  Mahommedan,  though  he  was 
less  fanatically  bigoted  than  most 
Moslems  in  the  Eastern  Soudan.    He 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader, 


119 


used  at  one  time  to  be  a  trusted  emir 
of  the  Mahdi,  but  his  larger  views  and 
more  liberal  opinions  caused  him  to 
incur  suspicion  of  favouring  the 
Egyptians,  and  he  fell  into  disgrace. 
The  "attack  of  our  auxiliary  cavalry  " 
refers  to  a  skirmish  which  arose  out 
of  one  of  the  numerous  raids  that 
were  constantly  taking  place  round 
Suakin  at  that  time.  The  following 
is  the  text  of  the  letter  as  translated 
to  us: 

In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compassionate, 
the  Merciful,  etc.,  etc.  From  the  servants 
of  their  Lord,  whose  trust  is  in  Him, 
Magdub  Abu  Bakr,  Mohammed  Othman 
Abu  Girgeh,  and  from  us  the  successor  of 
the  Mahdi  (peace  be  upon  his  name,  the 
inspired  saint,  our  intercessor  before  God !) 
Achmed  Rachma ;  to  Antonius  Saad — may 
God  lead  him  and  convert  his  mind. 
Amen. 

Now  we  have  received  your  letter  dated 
8  Rabi  II.,  and  what  you  mentioned  therein 
of  the  attack  of  our  auxiliary  cavalry  near 
the  circle  of  Suakin,  and  its  results  upon 
the  protection  of  traders  and  of  their  goods 
in  the  ports  both  of  Trinkitat  and  Akik, 
and  what  you  have  stated  to  the  people  of 
Suakin,  namely,  that  this  attack  of  our 
horsemen  was  made  unknown  to  us. 

Know  thou  that  we  have  not  over- 
stepped justice  and  right,  and  that  the 
peace  which  we  agreed  to,  and  accorded 
to  all  who  may  come  to  the  Mahdist  ter- 
ritory in  the  Eastern  land  [Eastern  Soudan] 
and  the  districts  of  Massowah  and  Suakin, 
(whether,  they  come  with  merchandise  or 
alone,  and  whether  they  come  from  sea- 
wards or  from  landwards)  it  remains  with- 
out objection  or  restraint,  except  as  regards 
what  is  necessarily  prohibited  by  the  law 
of  God  [alcohol,  etc.]  ;  and  we  did  not 
seize,  and  shall  not  seize,  them  or  their 
goods ;  for  we  arc  bound  to  them  by  our 
agreement  as  regards  this  peace.  Let  this 
suffice. 

As  regards  this  affair  of  our  horsemen 
and  its  result,  you  must  know  that  some 
of  the  Arabs  who  live  about  Ribat  "  lifted  " 
our  cattle  like  thieves,  and  we  sent  horse- 
men in  pursuit  direct,  who  overtook  them 
near  Suakin  and  killed  those  who  stood 
and  offered  resistance,  and  recaptured  the 
cattle  and  brought  it  back.  Such  is  the 
punishment  for  the  ungodly.  That  is 
what  was  done  by  our  mounted  men. 

And  as  regards  the  government  of  this 
land,  know  thou  that  we  trust  in  God  and 


place  our  reliance  upon  Him.  He  will 
support  those  who  trust  in  Him,  as  is 
declared  in  His  Holy  Book  in  the  words, 
"  May  the  Lord  be  exalted  :  there  is  no 
creeping  thing  upon  earlh  but  He  pro- 
vides for  its  necessities." 

As  regards  the  letter  of  Seyed  Khamisi, 
you  should  know  that  we  have  read  it, 
and  we  heard  what  he  had  to  say,  and 
spoke  to  him  and  made  him  understand 
that  every  merchant  who  shall  come  from 
the  coast  or  the  interior  alike  has  our  pro- 
tection, for  the  good  and  for  the  peace  of 
God,  and  His  Prophet,  and  His  Mahdi ; 
and  the  Khalifa  is  our  security.  And  now 
we  inform  them  that  trade  is  open  just  as 
it  was  before.     Let  this  be  known. 

7  Rabi  II.  1307.    [end  of  October,  1889.] 

As  I  have  already  explained,  the 
opening  of  trade  with  the  interior  was 
in  those  days  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 
The  advance,  however,  from  Suakin 
of  the  Egyptian  troops,  and  the  occu- 
pation of  the  surrounding  country,  has 
completely  altered  the  complexion  of 
affairs.  The  battle  of  Tokar  marks 
the  commencement  of  a  new  era  in  the 
Eastern  Soudan.  The  coast  tribes, 
sickened  by  long  years  of  Dervish 
oppression  .and  its  attendant  horrorb, 
famine  and  bloodshed,  are  submitting 
quietly  and  cheerfully  to  the  new 
order  of  things.  If  only  the  govern- 
ment are  successful  in  establishing 
order  and  just  rule  their  position  is 
assured,  and  prosperity  will  be  restored 
to  the  country.  Above  all  it  is 
essential  that  good  faith  should  be 
kept  with  the  natives,  and  past 
engagements  and  undertakings  must 
be  scrupulously  adhered  to  if  future 
military  expenditure  is  to  be  kept 
within  reasonable  limits.  Mahdism  is 
a  slowly  dying  cause.  The  religious 
element  in  it  has  long  since  spent  its 
force  among  the  peasantry,  while  its 
foundations  as  a  political  principle 
have  been  sapped  by  the  misery  and 
sufferings  which  the  Arabs  have  had 
to  endure,  and  for  which  it  is  largely  re- 
sponsible. Gradually,  as  the  advantages 
of  the  new  rule  make  themselves  felt, 
fresh  tribes  will  send  in  their  sub- 
mission, until  at  length  the  whole 
region  north  of  Khartoum  between  the 


120 


The  Experiences  of  an  African  Trader. 


Nile  and  the  Red  Sea  falls  into  the  lap 
of  the  Egyptian  Government.  We 
may  anticipate  spasmodic  efforts  from 
time  to  time  on  the  part  of  the 
Dervishes  to  regain  their  lost  prestige, 
but  the  secession  of  the  coast  tribes  is 
a  blow  from  which  they  can  scarcely 
recover.  South  of  the  Mahdist  capital 
their  tenure  of  power  is  more  secure. 
There  the  pinch  of  poverty  has  not 
been  so  severely  felt  owing  to  the 
excellent  crops  produced  in  Senna ar, 
and  it  may  be  many  years  before  the 
forces  of  the  Khalifa  are  finally 
expelled. 

Let  us  take  a  peep  forward  into 
what  I  believe  to  be  the  not  far  distant 
future  of  the  Eastern  Soudan.  In  my 
mind's  eye  I  see  the  Arab  peasant  for 
the  first  time  sowing  his  crop  in  the 
sure  knowledge  that  he  will  enjoy  the 
reaping  and  the  profit  thereof  himself. 
The  ceaseless  tribal  warfare  of  the  last 
ten  years,  which  decimated  the  male 
population,  has  ceased.  The  shepherd, 
no  longer  as  formerly  a  nomad  from 
necessity,  tends  his  flocks  in  tran- 
quillity and  peace.  Practical,  if  un- 
ambitious, irrigation  works  have  made 
many  waste  places  productive.  At 
Suakin  there  is  a  moderate  trade ;  not 
the  vast  system  of  commerce  of  which 
some  enthusiasts  have  dreamed,  but 
enough  to  keep  several  firms  in  business. 
"Little  by  little"  should  now  be  the 
motto  of  the  Soudan  trader.  Let  the 
comparative  failure  which  has  hitherto 
attended  the  two  ambitious  schemes  of 
the  East  African  Chartered  Company 
act  as  a  warning. 

In  the  days  of  which  I  am  speaking 
there  will  have  been  a  revolution  in  the 
system  of  transport.  The  camel  will 
have  been  partially  superseded  by  the 
locomotive.  The  railway  to  Berber 
will  then  be  an  accomplished  fact. 
Abyssinian  young  ladies,  no  longer 
captive  but  free,  will  be  able  with  their 
lovers  to  take  third-class  return  tickets 


from  Khartoum  to  Suakin.  The  re- 
sources of  civilisation  will  make  them- 
selves felt  more  and  more.  Penny 
steamboats  will  be  plying  on  old  Nile 
between  Omdoorman  and  Khartoum. 
The  Mahdi  will  be  deposed,  and  Mr. 
Thomas  Cook,  who  has  already  annexed 
Lower  Egypt  to  his  extensive  domains, 
will  reign  in  his  stead.  Enterprising 
tourists  will  be  personally  conducted 
to  the  great  lakes  and  the  Bahr  al 
Ghazal.  Cheap  trips  will  be  organised 
up  the  Blue  Nile  into  Abyssinia, 
Macadamised  roads  will  thread  the 
now  trackless  forests  and  swamps, 
and  where  once  the  camel  swung  by 
with  slow  and  noiseless  tread  the 
scream  of  the  locomotive  will  scare  the 
lion  and  the  elephant  from  their  lairs. 
The  slave-trade  will  be  attacked  at  its 
fountain-head.  The  hydra-headed  mon- 
ster is  but  barely  scotched  now,  but  in 
the  days  that  are  to  be  it  will  have 
received  its  deathblow.  The  adminis- 
trative genius  of  the  English  race,  to 
which  the  prosperity  of  Egypt  now 
bears  silent  witness,  will  achieve  fresh 
triumphs  in  a  wider  field.  Another 
outlet  for  the  teeming  millions  of 
Europe  will  be  found  in  the  salubrious 
valleys  and  plateaux  of  Equatoria,  and 
"  British  spheres  of  influence"  will  ex- 
tend from  the  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
to  the  Mediterranean. 

It  is  a  golden  dream  from  one  point 
of  view,  though  the  lifting  of  the  veil  of 
mystery  which  till  lately  has  shrouded 
the  recesses  of  Africa  cannot  but  give 
rise  to  certain  saddening  reflections. 
Meanwhile,  whether  for  good  or  for  ill, 
the  old  order  is  rapidly  giving  place  to 
the  new.  Civilisation  marches  onward 
with  resistless  tread,  and  the  vast 
territories  of  the  Eastern  Soudan,  tem- 
porarily abandoned  to  anarchy  and 
barbarism,  are  now  about  to  enter 
upon  the  new  destiny  which  is  reserved 
for  the  entire  African  Continent. 

Hugh  E.  M.  Stutfield. 


121 


TEYPHENA  AND  TKYPHOSA. 


Tryphena  joined  the  Army  of  Sal- 
vation because  she  knew  of  no  larger 
field  for  display  and  publicity  than  the 
one  to  be  found  within  its  ranks. 
Therefore,  you  perceive,  her  knowledge 
of  life  was  limited.  She  had  a  clear 
voice  and  no  shyness  whatsoever,  two 
capital  necessities  for  a  lass  who  seeks 
advancement.  And  Tryphena  always 
meant  advancement.  She  had  no  con- 
ception of  being  left  behind  in  life. 
Advantage  to  herself  was  the  goal  of 
her  existence.  Her  beauty  was  perhaps 
rather  a  drawback  in  the  profession  of 
struggling  saints,  but  it  might  not  be 
regarded  as  an  entire  disability  if  there 
were  extenuating  circumstances  of 
piety  attached  to  her  conduct.  Try- 
phena of  course  had  resolved  that  her 
piety  should  distinguish  her  from  her 
fellows.  She  was  not  of  the  rank  and 
file  in  any  profession. 

Tryphosa  joined  the  Army  for  very 
different  reasons.  The  first  one  was 
that  her  twin  sister  had  elected  to  fol- 
low in  its  paths,  and  her  life  apart  from 
that  beloved  sister  was  but  a  poor  and 
starving  thing.  As  much  as  Tryphena 
desired  her  own  advancement,  so  much 
did  Tryphosa  desire  it  for  her.  And 
this  other  twin  had  a  soul  tinged  with 
a  devout  colour,  a  colour  of  a  primary 
nature,  undimmed  by  any  complement- 
ary shade  of  ambition  or  self-interest. 
This  is  rare  in  any  sort  of  piety. 

The  twin  sisters  were  exceedingly 
fair  to  see,  bearing  a  strong  resemb- 
lance to  each  other  in  the  calm  Madonna 
style,  with  smoothly  rippling  hair  and 
deep  grey  eyes.  The  only  difference 
was  this  :  Tryphena* s  eyes  said  a  good 
deal  in  the  way  of  tenderness  and  be- 
seechment,  and  meant  next  to  nothing 
at  all ;  Tryphosa's  said  not  so  much, 
bat  meant    considerably   more.     This 


last  one  had  the  soul  of  some  far  oif 
ancestress  who  had  been  sincere  and 
righteous  and  pure  of  heart ;  and  Try- 
phena had  the  looks  and  outward 
expression  of  the  same  remote  lady, 
looks  which  corresponded  to  the  soul 
from  which  they  were  now  divided. 

The  Twins  had  been  camp-followers 
of  the  Army  from  their  childhood,  not 
so  much  willingly  as  of  necessity.  At 
an  early  stage  of  their  existence 
Mr.  PaiU,  their  now  deceased  parent, 
had  dressed  them  up  in  miniature  uni- 
form, poke  bonnets,  serge  frocks  and 
requisite  badges,  and  so  attired  had 
drawn  attention  to  himself  leading 
them,  one  on  each  side,  to  the  roll-call 
and  the  Sunday  gatherings.  At  such 
meetings  he  sang  hymns  fervently  and 
testified  to  his  own  satisfactory  security 
in  the  Bank  of  Eternal  Life. 

The  infantile  grace  of  the  little  pair 
attracted  many  eyes,  and  many 
motherly  hearts  in  the  assemblies 
yearned  over  the  exquisite  childhood 
protected  but  feebly  by  a  wiJd-eyed 
visionary. 

During  the  early  girlhood  of  the 
Twins  this  protector  disappeared  for 
some  considerable  time  without  any 
explanation  as  to  his  sudden  departure. 
Tryphosa,  little  mystic,  ever  credulous 
of  the  miraculous,  had  secretly  cher- 
ished the  belief  that  some  chariot  of  fire 
had  removed  her  parent  from  the  scene 
of  his  earthly  labours.  This  belief 
was  subsequently  rudely  dispelled  by 
his  re-appearance  in  a  common  cab  and 
in  a  by  no  means  spiritualised  form. 
His  face  and  figure  had  undergone 
alterations  and,  it  must  be  allowed, 
improvements.  His  hair,  formerly 
neglected  (for  in  this  matter  the  Army 
does  not  always  conform  to  order),  had 
more  than  a  militarv  closeness  of  cut 
about  it,  and  his  figure  had  put  on 
flesh  in  a  really  considerable  way,  testi- 


122 


Trypheim  aiid  Tiyjihosa, 


fying,  at  least,  that  he  had  not  been 
called  upon  to  exercise  self-denial  or 
rigorous  abstinence  during  his  tempor- 
ary removal. 

But  Mr.  Paul  was  silent  in  the 
presence  of  his  childi-en  regarding  any 
new  experiences  of  exile,  and  only 
prayed  more  abundantly  for  his 
enemies,  leading  the  Twins  to  suppose 
he  had  been  at  the  mercy  of  his  foes. 
As  a  matter  of  course  the  Army  re- 
ceived him  back  and  the  whisper 
**  deserter "  never,  at  least,  reached 
his  children's  ears.  Still  they  took 
notice  that  his  offices  had  fallen  from 
him  in  his  absence,  and  that  his  oratory 
no  longer  graced  the  customary  plat- 
form. 

A   period   of   rigid   abstinence  and 
self-denial    ensued,    and    before  many 
weeks   he  fell  away  from  plumpness. 
As   the   leanness   came  upon  him  his 
religious  fervour,  or  fanaticism,  became 
more  marked.    He  continually  pointed 
out  to  the  girls  the  significant  names 
he   had   given  them  ;    Tryphena  and 
Tryphosa   "  who  labour  in  the  Lord.'* 
And  as  he  worked  himself  into  a  frenzy 
of  exalted   enthusiasm  and  gave  vent 
to  prophecy,  the  Twins  would  be  driven 
in  fear  and  trembling  to  the  shelter  of 
some  neighbour's  rooms.     Night  after 
night    he   disturbed   them   with    wild 
muttorings,  and   in  his  dreams  fought 
fearful  conflicts  with    the  Powers  of 
Evil.     A  few  months  more  found  him 
sunken-eyed,  hollow-cheeked,  and  ex- 
hausted.    The  spiritual  unrest  seemed 
to  oat  up  his  flesh,  the  fire  of  religious 
ardour  to  consume  his  very  life.     And 
then  one  night,  after  a  day  spent  in 
much  mental  excitement,  Mr.  Paul  fell 
fainting  in  the  street,  a  stream  of  blood 
jwuringfrom  his  pale  lips.  The  cerebral 
agitation  had  been  too  much, — he  had 
burst  a  blood-vessel.     He  was  carried 
to  the  nearest  hospital,  and  there  with 
his  last  audible  breath   he  consigned 
the  Twins   to  the  care  of  the  Army. 
That  was  the  end  of  a  strangely  com- 
plex piece    of   humanity.     When  this 
poor  Paul  was  not  a  fanatic  he  was  a 
criminal.      Extremes  meet  perilously. 
His  moods  of  spiritual  exaltation  had 


for  years  alternated  with  outbreaks  of 
crime,  when  he  was  hardly  responsible 
for  his  actions.  This  human  amalgam 
was  charged  with  potent  forces  which 
made  him  an  almost  involuntary  actor 
in  the  periodical  fits  of  zeal  and  attacks 
of  vice  by  which  he  was  seized.  Can 
we  judge  such  as  these  by  the  laws 
applied  to  ordinary  flesh  and  blood  % 

Out  of  such  parentage  what  could  be 
expected  to  come  but  vice  and  insanity  % 
Yet  stay !  Was  there  not  the  far-off 
ancestress  to  be  reckoned  with  ?  Her 
virtue,  her  transcendent  purity,  no  less 
than  her  noble  features,  generations  of 
erring  descendants  had  not  been  able 
to  wear  out.  The  fair  image  had  not 
been  debased  by  the  alloy  of  impure 
blood,  and  the  worthy  spirit  had  passed 
on  pure  and  undefiled  through  many 
an  unworthy  life.  There  was  a  strain 
of  this  same  virtue  still  existent,  nay 
quick  with  life,  in  the  young  Tryphosa's 
soul. 

II. 

The  girls  were  in  due  course  put  out 
to  service  under  the  auspices  of  the 
protecting  Army,  and  the  brigadier 
.  himself  took  occasional  note  of  their 
welfare.  But  the  Christian  families 
with  which  their  lot  was  cast  (small 
tradespeople  for  the  most  part)  did 
not  carry  their  devotion  into  the 
minute  details  of  every-day  practice. 
They  kept  salvation  as  a  thing  apart, 
chiefly  to  be  taken  out  on  Sundays 
and  at  special  meetings.  Therefore 
the  house  of  bondage  was  at  times 
very  grievous  to  endure. 

Tryphena  found  the  washing  and 
dressing  and  feeding  and  carrying  out 
of  five  unwholesome  children  more 
than  uncongenial  tasks.  Her  beauti- 
ful placid  brow  concealed  no  motherly 
thoughts  or  instincts,  and  she  hated 
the  life  which  held  no  beauty  or 
variety.  There  was  hardly  time  to 
dress  herself,  much  less  to  brush  her 
long  abundant  hair  and  to  see  to  the 
making  of  her  clothes.  As  for  Try- 
phosa she  would  have  scrubbed  floors 
and  dishes  with  endless  patience  if  she 
might  have  been  permitted  to  live  in 


Tryphcna  and  Tryphosa. 


123 


the  same  house,  or  even  in  the  same " 
street;  with  her  sister.  Occasionally  to 
catch  a  glimpse  from  her  scullery 
window  of  Tryphena's  ankles,  as  she 
wheeled  a  perambulator  down  the  pave- 
ment, would  have  been  bliss  enough  to 
content  her  loving  heart.  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  They  were  far  divided  and 
in  different  service,  and  she  pined 
secretly  for  her  twin  sister. 

One  Sunday  the  pair  took  counsel, 
as  they  were  seated  together  on  one  of 
the  benches  in  Holland  "Walk.  The 
nursemaid  lived  at  Netting  Hill  and 
the  scullery  wench  was  located  at  West 
Kensington.  This  spot  was  therefore 
selected  as  a  happy  point  of  meeting, 
and  one  with  the  advantage  attached 
to  it  that  they  were  able  to  sit  down. 

Thus,  shoulder  to  shoulder  on  the 
friendly  bench,  the  fair  young  sisters 
drew  the  attention  of  more  than  one 
passer-by.  They  were  singularly  alike 
as  to  features,  singularly  unlike  as  to 
dress.  One  wore  cheap  flowers  in  her 
hat  and  kid  gloves ;  the  other  wore  no 
gloves  at  all  and  had  crowned  herself 
with  a  sailor-hat  of  infinitesimal  pro- 
portions— the  cast-off  headgear  of 
her  mistress.  Somehow  this  sailor 
hat,  surmounting  the  refined  face  and 
pale  brown  hair,  had  a  curiously  in- 
congruous appearance.  A  second 
glance  provoked  a  smile  from  some 
who  passed  by. 

"  Have  you  got  half-a-crown  to 
spare,  Phosa  dear  %  I'm  clean  run  out 
again  today."  This  was  how  an  in- 
terview always  began  or  ended. 

Of  course  "  Phosa  dear  "  dipped  her 
rough  little  hand  deep  down  into  a  capa- 
cious pocket.  She  brought  therefrom 
a  brass  thimble,  a  folded  handkerchief, 
a  door-key  and  a  match  box  before  she 
grasped  her  shabby  little  purse. 
Phena  quickly  turned  it  inside  out,  and 
her  calm  eyes  brightened  somewhat 
because  there  was  an  odd  shilling  and 
three  halfpence  over  and  above  the 
sum  demanded.  Her  hand  closed  so 
tightly  over  it  that  the  cheap  glove 
split  itself  down  the  middle. 

"  You  don't  mind,  dear  ?  " 

Of   course  the   "dear"   shook   her 


head  vehemently  with  a  soft  smile  of 
denial.  How  could  she  say  now  that 
she  had  intended  the  purchase  of  a  new 
hat? 

"Pve  been  thinking,"  said  the  Twin 
with  the  more  beseeching  eyes,  looking 
down  sadly  at  the  rent  in  the  kid 
glove,  "  that  IVe  had  enough  of  ser- 
vice. 

"Oh,  Phena !  And  such  a  lovely 
baby  as  it  is." 

"  Lovely  ?  Ah,  you  don't  have  it  by 
night  times."  Which  was*  an  undeni- 
able proof  of  a  baby's  excellence  or 
otherwise. 

Tryphena  appeared  to  have  forgotten 
that  she  had  herself  selected  the  situa- 
tion of  nursemaid  in  preference  to  one 
of  washer-up,  as  being  better  paid  and 
a  more  genteel  occupation,  less  likely 
to  soil  the  hands.  This  young  person 
took  great  care  of  her  hands,  which 
were  beautiful,  in  natural  accordance 
with  other  physical  perfections. 
"  And,"  went  on  the  leisurely  voice 
which  was  refined  and  harmonious, 
"  I've  been  thinking  that  I'll  go  in  a 
shop  and  join  the  Army." 

"What?"  The  sailor-hat  tilted 
forward. 

"  Join  the  Salvationists  % " 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  hated  every 
one  that  belonged  to  it !  " 

"  So  I  do,  but  I  don't  hate  them  so 
bad  as  babies  and  being  tied  up  of  an 
evening." 

Tryphosa  looked  away.  She  did  not 
understand — she  never  had  understood 
— her  sister's  hatred  of  rule  and  re- 
straint and  her  restless  desire  to  act  a 
prominent  part  on  life's  busier  stage. 
Her  own  soul  spoke  otherwise  of  sub- 
mission and  humility.  Nevertheless 
the  Army  meant  notoriety  in  its  more 
respectable  form,  and  well  accorded 
with  her  personal  pious  yearnings. 

"  Poor  father,  he  wished  us  to  work 
for  the  Army,"  she  said  gently,  as  if 
to  extenuate  or  conceal  the  possibility 
of  any  other  reason  in  Phena' s  mind. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other  Twin  with  a 
majestic  elevation  of  her  head,  equiva- 
lent to  any  amount  of  contemptuous 
utterance,  "  don't  remind  me  of  him ! 


124 


Tryphena  and  Ih^phosa. 


I  sha'n't  grow  ugly  and  thin  like  some 
of  them  do."  She  glanced  round  with 
superb  disdain  of  such  a  possibility. 
A  couple  of  shop-boys  lounging  past 
with  cheap  Sunday  cigars  between  their 
lips  cast  an  admiring  glance  at  the 
speaker  as  her  clear  voice  reached  their 
ears.  The  girl  chilled  their  too  ex- 
pressive gaze  with  a  level  glance,  and 
they  moved  on  more  quickly. 

"  We  could  be  together  more  often," 
said  the  less  objective  Twin,  not 
having  observed  this  irrelevant  in- 
cident. 

"  Why  ? "  said  Phena  with  almost  a 
touch  of  sharpness.  "  You  didn't 
think  about  going  too  1"  It  would  be 
very  much  pleasanter  if  the  little 
washer-up  stood  afar  off  as  an  admirer, 
remaining  willing  to  supply  half- 
crowns  at  short  notice.  Tryphena 
did  not  lose  sight  of  the  possibility 
that  the  Army  might  otherwise  hold 
the  monopoly  of  superfluous  coins. 

**  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Madonna  in 
the  sailor-hat  with  great  fervour. 
"I'll  join  too.  It's  only  you  that 
have  kept  me  back." 

And  so  it  was  settled,  and  a  little 
quiver  about  the  nostrils  was  all  that 
betrayed  the  other  girl's  dissatisfac- 
tion. Tryphena  took  an  omnibus  back 
to  Netting  Hill,  but  Tryphosa  walked 
with  an  empty  pocket  all  the  way  to 
West  Kensington  and  was  duly  scolded 
for  being  out  after  hours. 

III. 

A  FEW  Sundays  later  the  Twins, 
being  released  from  servitude,  appeared 
at  a  public  gathering  and  subsequently 
became  regular  attendants.  They 
were  a  pair  of  conspicuous  figures, — 
tall,  and  one  almost  stately — with  a 
certain  distinguishing  air  of  expecta- 
tion and  freshness  about  their  be- 
haviour. They  were  not  familiar  with 
the  other  members  of  the  meeting,  and 
were  backward  in  religious  comments 
and  responses.  Original  sin  might  yet 
be  detected  by  a  discerning  eye  in  the 
elaborate  plaiting  of  Tryphena' s  pale 
brown  hair  and  in  the  faultless  cut  and 


fit  of  her  serge  gown.  Gloves  she  no 
longer  wore,  but  the  absence  of  these 
only  drew  attention  to  the  shapely 
hands  she  took  such  care  of. 

One  Sunday,  towards  the  end  of  the 
summer,  this  branch  of  the  Army  was 
holding  a  preliminary  out-door  service 
in  an  open  space  of  ground  not  yet 
given  over  to  the  builder.  This  plot 
was  the  centre  of  many  converging 
streets,  and  drew  together  from  the 
four  quarters  a  number  of  poor  and 
degraded  creatures  on  the  look-out  for 
some  Sunday  afternoon  recreation. 
At  the  first  sound  of  this  roll-call  the 
crowd  began  to  come  up  to  the  noise 
where  they  knew  salvation  was 
cheaply  advertised.  The  standard 
being  unfurled,  the  drums  and 
tambourines  set  to  work,  and  helped 
to  stir  up  the  enthusiasm  of  the  luke- 
warm spectators. 

It  was  Tryphosa' s  task  to  walk 
about  the  outside  edge  of  the  crowd 
and  to  dispose  of  a  sheaf  of  newspapers. 
*'A  Cry,  sir?"  she  said  to  each  new- 
comer with  a  certain  timid  deprecation 
of  a  rude  denial.  Tryphena,  having 
the  distinguishing  gift  of  a  voice,  had 
been  selected  this  afternoon  for  solo 
singing  of  hymns.  This  task  brought 
her  prominently  into  notice,  to  her  own 
satisfaction.  But  she  did  not  betray 
her  pleasure,  only  with  an  easy 
graceful  dignity  took  up  a  prominent 
position  in  the  centre  of  the  circle. 
There  was  something  really  imposing 
about  the  tall  straight  figure  clad  in 
heavy  serge  that  took  thick  folds  about 
her.  The  lofty  carriage  of  her  noble 
head  was  more  striking  as  she  sang, 
and  the  chorus  of  warriors  joined  in  at 
the  end  of  the  hymn  with  more  than 
customary  force  and  fire.  Surely  the 
circle  of  men  and  maids  had  never 
enclosed  a  more  beautiful  recruit ! 
Tryphosa  paused  to  join  in  the  chorus 
as  she  edged  round  the  crowd.  Her 
pulse  quickened  with  a  mingled 
rapture  of  enthusiasm  and  thanks- 
giving. She  had  no  desire  to  occupy 
her  sister's  place,  but  she  perceived,  or 
thought  she  perceived,  that  this  lovely 
creature,    her    own    flesh   and   blood, 


Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 


125 


was  leading  others  in  the  way  of 
salvation.  A  strange  gladness  over- 
whelmed her  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
happy  tears. 

A  voice  behind  her  arrested  her 
attention, — a  languid  gentlemanly 
voice. 

"  By  Jove !  what  a  beautiful  girl. 
Too  handsome  for  salvation, — in  this 
form." 

Another  voice  made  answer,  "  Her 
heart's  not  in  it.  This  occupation 
won't  last  her  long.     Watch  her." 

And  Tryphosa,  with  all  her  happy 
ardour  checked,  watched  also.  She 
did  not  see  so  much  as  the  men  saw, 
— how  could  she,  pure  soul  1 — but  she 
noticed  that  as  Tryphena  sang  her  eyes 
strayed  round  the  circle.  She  was  not 
absorbed  in  her  task,  but  quite 
sensible  of  many  admiring  glances  cast 
towards  her.  With  a  sort  of  resentful 
indignation  of  their  watchful  specula- 
tions Tryphosa  turned  to  the  two  men 
behind  her. 

"  Buy  a  Cry,  sir  ] '' 

The  younger  man  looked  at  her  and 
started  perceptibly.  The  older  .  man 
placed  some  coppers  in  her  hand  and 
signed  away  the  paper  she  offered. 

"She  is  my  sister,  sir,"  she  said 
with  a  deep  blush  rising.  It  was  as  if 
she  was  constrained  to  acknowledge 
she  had  heard  their  conversation. 
Then  she  passed  on. 

By  and  by  came  the  period  for 
soliciting  contributions.  A  War  Cry 
was  laid  down  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle  and  pennies  and  halfpennies 
were  tossed  in  from  outside  and  heaped 
upon  this  informal  altar. 

Tryphena,  having  finished  her  solo, 
walked  back  calmly  to  a  place  she 
selected  in  the  throng.  The  young 
man  who  had  taken  notice  of  her 
beauty  stood  near  that  spot.  She 
cast  a  full  and  comprehensive  glance 
towards  him  as  she  approached,  and 
she  knew  that  he  did  not  belong  to 
that  uncouth  and  uncultured  throng. 
What  liaa  arrested  him  here  1  As  the 
collector's  requests  for  contributions 
grew  more  urgent  the  girl  inclined  her 
head  to  those  nearest  her  and  solicited 


pence.  What  more  natural  than  for 
her  to  turn  to  the  gentlemanly 
spectator?  *'  And  you,  sir  1 "  she  said 
holding  out  her  white  hand  in  a  calm 
way,  a  way  so  far  removed  from  shy- 
ness and  yet  certainly  not  bold.  Still 
looking  at  her  intently  he  placed  a 
silver  coin  in  her  hand.  Tryphena 
advanced  and  laid  the  money  on  the 
paper,  and  the  collectors  noting  the 
zeal  of  their  recruit  smiled  approval  on 
her  contribution. 


IV. 

It  was  a  chilly  night.  A  gusty 
October  evening  with  squalls  of  cold 
rain  at  intervals, — a  night  when 
macintoshes  were  imperative  and  um- 
brellas impossible.  The  more  zealous 
soldiers  had  gone  out  into  the  high- 
ways, unmindful  of  any  inclement 
elements,  and  had  compelled  or  per- 
suaded many  to  come  in.  Tryphosa 
had  in  wind  and  storm  fulfilled  her  al- 
lotted task,  and  her  Cries  being  all  dis- 
posed of,  she  carried  a  pocket  weighty 
with  pence  to  thespot  where  she  expected 
to  meet  her  sister.  She  had  not  seen 
her  this  week,  for  all  her  leisure  time 
had  been  occupied  by  her  soldierly 
duties,  and  she  hungered  for  the  sight 
of  the  beloved  sister  and  waited  with 
a  heart  warm  with  affection.  The 
stragglers  going  to  the  meeting  passed 
her  and  swept  into  the  building  near 
at  hand,  but  still  Tryphena  did  not 
come.  The  Hallelujah  Lasses  spoke 
to  the  patient  watcher  as  they  passed, 
giving  her  the  time  and  bidding  her 
not  to  tarry.  She  took  no  heed  of 
their  admonitions  and  remained  with 
her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  darkness 
at  the  end  of  the  street.  How  the 
wind  roared  !  how  the  lamps  flickered  ! 
Down  came  the  rain  once  more  and  the 
girl  sought  shelter  on  a  friendly  door- 
step. The  rain  ceased,  and  overhead 
she  could  see  a  momentary  rift  in  the 
cloud  and  one  little  star  shining.  A 
blare  of  brass  instruments  was  swept 
towards  her  from  the  adjacent  building. 
Mechanically  and  in  an  undertone  she 
joined  in  the  chorus  of  the  hymn, 


120 


Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 


We  sound  aloud  the  jubilee, 
Mercy's  free,  mercy's  free  ! 

She  strained  her  eyes  till  they 
ached.  Tryphena  had  never  been 
so  late  before.  Surely  two  figures 
paused  under  the  farthest  gas- 
lamp, — two  figures,  not  one.  Then 
the  angry  wind  swept  Tryphosa' s  wet 
bonnet-strings  across  her  eyes  and  a 
moment's  stinging  pain  ensued.  The 
tears  blinded  her ;  when  she  looked 
about  her  again  the  dear  sister  was 
close  at  hand,  approaching  solitary. 

"  It  was  you  then, — under  the  gas- 
lamp,"  said  Tryphosa  breathless,  "  and 
ome  one  with  you  !  " 

The  eyes  of  the  truthful  ancestress 
looked  steadily  into  Tryphosa's  own. 
"Some  one  with  me!  Why,  you're 
dreaming." 

And  the  Twin  who  had  the  soul 
of  the  ancestress  which  never  lied, 
thought  that  the  night  shadows  and 
the  driving  rain  had  deceived  her  with 
false  shapes. 

The  good  work  within  the  building 
went  merrily  forward  that  night ; 
many  declared  their  salvation,  and 
half-a-dozen  sitting  on  the  Penitent 
Form  bewailed  their  earlier  state  of 
darkness  and  peril.  Tryphena  also 
stood  up  and  gave  evidence  of  right- 
eousness, testifying  in  a  way  that 
stirred  all  hearts ;  and  the  worshippers, 
poor  working  men  and  women,  unac- 
quainted with  any  subtle  influence  of 
culture  and  refinement,  were  yet 
moved  to  tears  and  spiritual  anguish 
by  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  creature, 
with  the  face  of  an  angel,  who  had 
come  among  them  to  seal  their  con- 
victions. With  loud  accord  the  throng 
of  yearning  humanity  gave  voice  to  a 
rapturous  chorus  of  praise  and  thanks- 
giving. Overcome  with  emotion,  with 
eyes  shining  with  that  strange  spirit- 
ual light  which  too  often  forebodes 
fanaticism,  Tryphosa  passed  silently 
from  the  building  and  went  home. 
Her  heart  was  too  full  to  hold  human 
intercourse,  and  yet  she  had  not  testi- 
fied to  any  moving  grace.  Tryphena, 
cRlm  and  collected,  waited  to  receive 


the  adulation  of  the  officers,  for  praise 
and  honour  it  was  to  her  to  be  marked 
out  in  that  large  assembly.  A  young 
captain,  devout  in  good  works,  escorted 
the  girl  home  through  the  stormy 
night  and  parted  with  her  on  the 
doorstep  of  the  shop  with  the  cus- 
tomary fervent  blessing,  which  was 
not  altogether  impersonal. 

A  day  or  two  later  the  end  came, — 
the  end  of  this  girl's  services  to  sal- 
vation. The  lass  who  stood  up  high 
for  promotion  after  such  short  service 
disappeared.  The  beautiful  Tryphena 
came  no  more  to  the  gatherings,  and 
was  lost  sight  of  in  the  great  outside 
world. 

The  captain  sought  out  Tryphosa 
and  questioned  her  closely  in  a  per- 
emptory manner.  Over  and  beyond 
the  interests  of  the  Army  he  had  a 
private  concern  at  heart.  The  girl 
quivered  and  trembled  beneath  the 
rough  touch  laid  on  her  heart-strings. 
How  could  she  bear  this  suspicion  of 
evil  which  like  a  dark  cloud  now  en- 
compassed the  missing  one  ? 

They  knew  nothing  of  Tryphena  at 
the  shop  where  she  had  served.  She 
had  given  a  week's  notice  and  had 
gone  away  alone  in  a  cab,  taking  all 
her  small  possessions  with  her.  A 
terrible  presentiment, — a  doubt  she 
had  never  taken  out  and  looked  at 
fairly — rose  up  in  the  troubled  sister's 
mind.  Tryphena  had  asked  for  no 
money  for  a  long  time,  and  once,  a 
few  weeks  back,  when  Tryphosa  had 
borrowed  her  sister's  Bible  a  play-bill 
had  discovered  itself  therein, — a  play- 
bill of  recent  date.  And  then  the 
dream,  or  vision  of  Tryphena  parting 
with  a  man  beneath  the  gas-lamp, — 
was  it  a  reality  after  all  ]  .  With  a 
stricken  soul  the  Salvation  Lass  went 
about  her  daily  tasks  and  waited, 
praying  without  ceasing.  There  was 
no  one  to  help  her.  Such  things  had 
happened  before  in  the  Army,  and 
the  gap  filled  up  and  the  deserter  was 
speedily  forgotten.  Tryphena  had 
gone  away  willingly,  and  by  and  by 
she  might  appear  again.  She  had 
tired  of   it  all,  as  she   had   tired  of 


Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 


127 


other  things  before.  To  her  there 
was  no  law  of  worthiness  and  perfec- 
tion incumbent  on  her,  if  there  was 
no  advantage  in  it.  Something  better 
in  the  way  of  occupation,  some  yet 
greater  prominence  had  presented  it- 
self, and  doubtless  Tryphena,  true  to 
her  nature,  had  gone  after  it.  She 
would  write  or  come  again  in  due 
time.  So  the  unhappy  sister,  making 
the  best  of  the  fallible  points  she 
knew  so  well,  endeavoured  to  shield 
herself  from  the  worst  doubt  of  all. 


It  was  spring-time  and  Hyde  Park 
was  joyous  in  sunshine  and  renewed 
vernal  life.  A  gay  crowd  was  gathered 
together  this  forenoon,  along  the  foot- 
way of  Rotten  Row,  the  majority 
more  concerned  with  each  other's 
appearance  than  interested  in  the 
display  of  hyacinths  and  budding 
trees.  Leaders  of  fashion  showed 
the  marvellous  ways  of  dress  to 
women  of  less  social  importance,  apt 
disciples  in  this  direction,  and  the 
wave  of  gossip  and  scandal  gathered 
and  broke  with  its  usual  destructive 
force. 

A  Salvationist  Lass,  intent  on  some 
errand  of  mercy,  had  found  this  the 
shortest  road  to  her  destination.  She 
threaded  her  way  through  the  fashion- 
able crowd,  attracting  little  notice 
beyond  an  occasional  indulgent  smile. 
Yet  she  was  very  delicate  and  refined 
in  appearance,  tall  and  slender,  with 
an  almost  ethereal  fragility.  There 
was  a  far-away  unreal  look  in  her 
eyes,  which  seemed  to  rest  always  be- 
yond the  throng,  but  something  sin- 
gularly attractive  about  the  tender 
curves  of  her  lips. 

At  the  end  of  the  Row  a  yet  denser 
crowd  was  packed  on  chairs  or  stood 
about  in  friendly  chat.  Still  she 
pressed  forward,  passing  between  them 
all  without  pausing  to  glance  at  any. 
Hep  mission  was  not  here,  or  to  any 
such  as  these.  She  breathed  more 
freely  as  she  came  out  of  the  press 
and  paused  a  moment  to  draw  a  strong 


sigh.  Her  work  was  heavy,  and 
spiritual  exhaustion  as  well  as  bodily 
had  crept  over  her.  A.  year  had  gone 
by,  and  no  voice  of  kith  or  kin  had 
spoken  to  her. 

She  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  too 
dazzling  sun  as   she  stood,  about  to 
cross  the  road,  at  Apsley  House.     As 
she  paused  a  pi-ancing  pair  of  black 
horses   and   a  well-appointed  victoria 
clattered  over  the  stones  at  the  corner. 
She  stood  so  near  that  the  dust  from 
the  wheels  soiled  her  dress.   Mechanic- 
ally her  eyes  fell  upon  the  occupant  of 
the   carriage, — a  beautiful  girl  wear- 
ing an  air  of  calm  pride.     The  beauti- 
ful girl's  glance  swept  over  the  passers 
by,  travelled  on  slowly  and  met  the 
wild  awakened  look  of  the  Salvation 
Lass, — the  look  of  one  who  sees  visions 
and  dreams  dreams.    They  might  have 
touched  each  other  at  that  momentary 
exchange  of  looks,  but  the  lady's  car- 
riage  passed    on    and    her   drooping 
parasol  lowered   a   moment  over  her 
stately    head.      Then    the   other   fell 
fainting  in  the  sunshine. 

VI. 

More  years  went  by  and  Tryphosa' s 
heart  and  hand  never  slacked  in  the 
work  she  had  chosen.     Her  pity  and 
labour  were  given  to  sinners,  to  sinners 
of    the    worst    sort.       She    practised 
daily  works  of  atonement  for  the  sins 
of  others, — for  the  sins  of  one  other 
now    far    removed    from    her.     Self- 
sacrifice,   the   perilous  rock  of    many 
creeds,  was  in  all  her  thoughts  and 
actions.      She   dwelt   upon  the  possi- 
bility of  expiation  and  atonement  for 
another   till  the  idea  became   fatally 
fixed.      Hereunto  she  was  called,  and 
sooner  or  later  the  allotted  task  would 
be  clearly  pointed  out.      Thus,  in  the 
exaltation  of  her  more  spiritual  moods, 
her    reason  was  confounded  and  her 
mind  unhinged  by  a  mystical  belief. 
A  religious  martyrdom  might  crown 
her  life  and  prove  an  act  of  reparation 
for   another.      Alas !     alas !      So   far 
however  she  had  kept  her  hold  of  life's 
sad    realties.      When   physical  suffer- 


128 


Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 


ing  or  material  wants  called  out  for 
practical  assistance  she  was  ready  to 
give  help.  A.nd  this  poor  saint  seemed 
to  draw  towards  her  many  broken- 
hearted and  sorrowful  souls,  comforting 
them  with  the  promise  of  eternal  rest. 
None  should  ever  be  cast  out,  none 
should  be  rejected  from  grace.  Was  not 
that  consolation  and  assurance  the  very 
foundation  and  bulwark  of  salvation  1 

For  three  successive  nights  Tryphosa 
had  waited  and  watched  outside  a 
squalid  lodging-house  in  the  worst 
part  of  Westminster.  She  had  waited 
patiently  for  the  regular  appearance 
of  a  woman,  young  so  far  as  could  be 
judged  from  her  gait  and  figure,  yet  a 
woman  who  went  down  nightly  to  the 
Embankment.  She  came  again  and 
yet  again,  and  watched  the  black 
shining  waters  under  the  intense 
starlight  of  a  wintry  sky.  Not  nights 
for  any  loiterers  were  these.  And 
each  time  this  tall  and  stately  creature, 
shrouded  in  an  old  shawl,  went  away 
with  a  rapid  step  and  a  mind  made  up, 
— not  that  night,  no,  not  that  night ! 
Then  Tryphosa  would  creep  home 
silently  to  her  own  resting-place. 

But  the  last  hope  had  fled,  and  now, 
with  frost  in  the  air  and  snow  upon  the 
ground,  the  grisly  King  beckoned 
down  to  the  water's  edge  once  more. 
Tryphosa  had  seen  the  woman  turned 
from  her  lodgings,  and  she  knew  what 
would  happen  next,  what  had 
happened  in  such  cases  before.  Now 
the  creature  without  hope  sat  upon  a 
deserted  bench  with  her  poor  clothing 
all  huddled  around  her.  She  was 
waiting,  calm  and  still,  till  all  foot- 
steps near  her  died  away.  When 
that  happened  she  would  steal  along 
the  wall  unobserved,  and  lose  herself 
for  evermore  in  a  still  greater  silence. 
Tryphosa  knew.  Had  she  not  seen 
this  sort  of  thing  at  this  spot  before  1 
Her  intuition  and  sympathy  told  her 
that  the  woman,  who  had  settled  her- 
self quietly  to  an  apparent  rest,  was 
waiting  with  wide-eyed  misery,  waiting 
with  all  her  life  like  a  moving  slide 
passing  before  her  in  those  last  heart- 
beats of  anguish. 


The  big  clock  struck  one,  and  the 
Salvation  Lass  moved  backwards  and 
forwards  to  keep  herself  warm  and 
the  woman  was  conscious  of  her 
presence.  The  big  clock  struck  two, 
and  a  policeman  on  his  beat  paused  to 
glance  at  the  pair  of  women.  He 
recognised  the  situation  instantly  and 
moved  away,  trusting  in  that  faith- 
ful silent  sentinel.  And  all  the  time 
Tryphosa  waited  she  nerved  herself 
for  her  task,  the  fire  of  zeal  burning 
hot  within  her.  The  fierce  enthusiasm 
of  faith  and  longing  set  her  pulses 
beating  fast. 

On  the  strike  of  three  the  woman  on 
the  bench  stirred  and  drew  the  old  shawl 
around  her.  The  Salvation  Lass  had 
walked  a  little  further  off  than  before. 
The  woman  watched  her  stealthily. 
It  was  a  black  night  and  the  gas 
lamps  were  far  apart.  Noiselessly 
she  slipped  to  her  feet  and  passed  like 
a  shade  to  the  wall  which  hid  the 
river.  She  laid  hold  of  the  stone 
work  with  one  hand,  as  if  to  steady 
herself,  and  then  she  dropped  the 
shawl.  On  the  other  side  it  would  be 
very  cold,  but  she  would  need  no 
covering.  And  the  woman  who  had 
loved  comfort  and  good  days  all  her 
life,  shivered  as  she  thought  of  the 
depths.  That  pause  was  long  enough 
to  save  her.  A  hand  touched  her, 
drew  her  back, — a  wasted  hand  with 
very  little  strength  in  it.  But  the 
touch  of  it  was  like  fire,  and  the 
startled  woman  shuddered. 

**  Let  me  go, — let  me  go  1 "  she 
said  hoarsely. 

Tryphosa  recoiled.  This  was  more 
than  she  had  expected.  "  'Tis  you — 
at  last — at  last  I  "  she  cried  in  a  voice 
that  rang  with  triumphant  joy.  And 
in  the  gloom  the  sinner  and  the  saint 
knew  the  bond  of  sisterhood  between 
them. 

"It  is  you,  Phosa,"  sighed  the 
woman,  "here?" 

"  God  has  spared  me  for  your  salva- 
tion," cried  the  other  one,  and  fallinp; 
to  her  knees  on  the  snowy  pavement 
she  offered  up  a  wild  rhapsody  of 
praise.     Tryphena  turned  away. 


Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 


129 


**  I  don't  want  to  live  to  be  pointed 
at.  I  won't  be  saved  to  take  the 
lowest  place." 

"Repent — repent!"  said  Tryphosa 
still  on  her  knees,  clinging  to  her 
sister's  skirt.     "  There  is  yet  time." 

"  No,  no,  I  do  not  repent.  I  will 
not  creep  upon  my  knees.  There  is 
no  place  for  me  in  this  world.  Let  me 
see  the  end  of  it." 

Tryphosa  lifted  herself  from  the 
ground.  "  Die  in  sin  ]  No,  no  ! "  She 
paused  as  if  to  gather  her  strength  of 
utterance.  "  You  need  not  creep  up- 
on your  knees,  but  you  shall  be  saved. 
I  will  redeem  your  soul." 

The  light  of  fanaticism  flamed  in  her 
eyes.  The  sacrifice  was  close  at  hand. 
She  lifted  her  hands  to  the  sky,  gazing 
upwards  as  if  to  fathom  some  kingdom 
of  glory.  "  Lord,  I  give  her  to  Thee. 
She  shall  take  my  place." 

Then  the  woman  who  had  sought  to 
die,  claiming  extinction  as  a  right  of 
misery,  looked  at  her  sister,  not  in 
any  way  comprehending  ;  the  language 
she  heard  had  grown  utterly  strange 
to  her. 

Tryphosa,  with  a  haste  unknown  to 

her,  flung  off  her  Army  jacket  with 

its  badge,  and  removing  her  bonnet, 

placed  it  on  her  sister's  bare  head. 

"  We  are  alike, — there's  very  few 


can  tell  us  apart  when  we're  dressed 
the  same.  I'm  readier  to  die  than 
you.  The  Lord  will  promote  me  tc 
glory, — greater  love  hath  no  one  than 
this." 

In  such  disconnected  sentences 
she  went  on  as  she  stripped  herself  of 
all  Army  tokens.  Then  she  picked 
up  the  ragged  shawl  from  the  ground 
and  wound  it  closely  about  her  own 
form.  Before  Tryphena  had  clearly  com- 
prehended her  intent,  she  kissed  her, 
gave  a  loud  clear  shout,  Salvation  !  and 
disappeared.  The  policeman  hearing 
that  loud  cry  came  back  quickly  and 
found  the  girl  in  the  Salvationist 
bonnet  shuddering  as  she  looked  over 
the  wall  into  the  abyss. 

"  Too  late,  my  lass,  were  you  %  Ay, 
they're  very  cunning  when  they're  set 
on  it.  'Tis  a  pity  1 "  And  with 
rough  sympathy  he  lifted  the  girl's 
jacket  from  the  ground  and  placed  it 
on  her  shoulders. 

And  the  woman  went  away  as  if 
cleansed  of  her  sins,  and  the  leaders 
recognised  her  only  as  Tryphosa.  And 
the  years  went  by  and  she  found 
favour  with  the  elders  as  a  wise  virgin 
whose  light  burned  brightly.  But 
there  was  one  "  promotion  to  glory  " 
which  never  reached  the  knowledge  of 
the  Army. 

H.  M. 


No.  386.--VUL.  lXv. 


130 


THE  GRAND  ARMY  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


Germany  honours  Sedan  Day,  and 
France  celebrates  the  glorification  of 
destruction  on  the  14th  of  July;  but 
England  has  no  events  in  her  history 
which  she  yearly  commemorates,  for 
Guy  Fawkes*  day,  whatever  it  may 
have  been  once,  has  now  sunk  into  a 
vulgarism  and  a  nuisance.  It  is  quite 
different,  however,  with  the  great 
English-speaking  nation  across  the 
Atlantic.  The  fondness  for  national 
celebrations  among  the  people  of  the 
United  States  may  be  due  to  their 
earlier  adoption  of  democratic  institu- 
tions, or  to  their  close  intercourse  with 
France  in  the  days  of  political  alliance 
in  the  last  century  and  of  social  and 
artistic  imitation  in  the  latter  half  of 
this,  or  again  to  the  large  mixture 
of  other  elements  than  English  in  the 
population ;  but  whatever  the  cause, 
it  certainly  is  a  fact  that  the  Ameri- 
can delights  in  public  ceremonial  as 
much  as  an  Englishman  dislikes  it. 
The  Fourth  of  July  Orations  have 
passed  into  a  proverb;  and  as  the 
memories  of  the  struggle  with  England 
have  grown  fainter,  a  new  national 
festival  has  sprung  up  in  Decoration 
Day,  on  which  North  and  South 
unite  to  honour  the  graves  of  their 
dead  soldiers,  and  to  preserve  the  mem- 
ories of  the  great  Civil  War.  It  is 
another  commemoration  of  that  terri- 
ble struggle,  of  a  somewhat  different 
kind,  at  which  we  happened  to  be  pre- 
sent this  year,  and  which  seemed  to  us 
characteristic  enough  to  be  worth  de- 
scription, especially  as  to  the  majority 
of  Englishmen  probably,  as  to  our- 
selves, it  will  be  quite  unfamiliar. 

The  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  is 
an  association  which  was  founded  in 
1866,  a  year  after  the  close  of  the 
war ;  its  ranks  are  open  to  all  those 
who  served  under  the  Federal  flag 
and  who  received  an  honourable  dis- 


charge. It  took  its  lise  in  Illinois,  a 
State  which  had  played  a  most  proini- 
nent  part  in  the  struggle,  which  had 
sent  Lincoln  to  the  White  House,  and 
which  first  appreciated  the  merits  of 
Grant  as  a  general.  Its  objects  were 
to  perpetuate  those  ties  of  friendship 
which  had  been  formed  in  the  smoke 
of  battle,  and  to  secure  the  interest  of 
those  who  had  suffered  for  the  Union, 
while  as  regards  the  State  it  was  in- 
tended to  serve  as  a  school  of  patriot- 
ism for  the  nation,  by  reminding  the 
coming  generation  of  the  "  brave  days 
of  old."  Like  everything  else  in  the 
States,  it  has  not  been  unaffected  by 
the  influence  of  the  "  politicians."  Mr. 
Bret  Harte  dramatically  sets  forth 
this,  and  other  objections  to  the  move- 
ment, in  his  charming  poem  of  Thb  Old 
Major  Explains. 

And  then  for  an  old  man  like  me,  it's  not 

exactly  right 
This  kind  of  playing  soldier  with  no  enemy 

m  signt. 
The  Union, — that  was  well  enough  way  up 

to  Sixty-Six, 
But  this  Re-Union, — maybe  now  it's  mixed 

with  politics. 

But  the  memories  of  Spottsylvania 
are  too  much  for  the  old  man's 
scruples,  and  he  yields  to  the  invita- 
tion to  meet  his  comrades  once  more ; 
and  as  in  the  poem,  so  in  real  life, 
sentiment  has  triumphed  over  criti- 
cism, and  the  organisation  has  steadily 
increased  in  numbers  till  the  present 
time.  At  the  recent  meeting  in  Detroit 
in  the  first  week  of  August,  it  was 
reported  that  four  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  veterans  were  now  enrolled 
in  its  Posts,  as  the  various  lodges  are 
called.  Of  course  only  a  small  portion 
of  these  come  to  any  one  gathering;  but 
this  year,  as  being  the  Silver  Anniver- 
sary of  the  foundation  of  the  order, 
a  special  effort  was  made,  and  it  was 


The  Grand  Army  of  the  Bepuhlic, 


131 


estimated  that  more  than  fifty  thou- 
sand veterans  met  in  the  great  com- 
mercial city  of  Michigan. 

Detroit  is  well  adapted  for  such  a 
gathering.     It  is  very  spacious  for  a 
city  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
people,  even  in  the  great  West  where 
cities  are  laid  out  on  the  grand  scale, 
and  owing  to  a  happy  inspiration  on 
the  part  of  its  designer,  who  also  laid 
out   the    "  magnificent   distances  "  of 
Washington,    it  succeeds    in    attain- 
ing regularity  of  plan   without    that 
deadly  uniformity  of  streets  at  right 
angles  which  makes  Chicago  as  mad- 
dening as  a   gigantic    draught-board. 
The  centre  of  the  city  at  Detroit  is  a 
small  park  from   which  the  avenues 
diverge  like  the  spokes  of    a  wheel, 
while  all  round  these  the  great  mass 
of  rectangularly  arranged  streets  fits 
closely  in.     The  profusion  of  trees  and 
the  broad  Detroit  river,  which  is  the 
outlet  to  the  Great  Lakes,  make  the 
place  as  beautiful  as  a  place  can  be  in 
which  every  existing  building  has  been 
put  up  within  fifty  years  on  an  almost 
level  plain.     It  is  a  point  of  honour 
in  the  States  for  each  city  to  outvie 
its  neighbours  and  rivals  in  its  muni- 
cipal displays  ;  and  public  and  private 
liberality   in    Detroit  had  subscribed 
nearly  £30,000  for  the  reception   of 
the  Grand  Army.     This  was  of  course 
independent  of  the  sums  expended  by 
individuals  on  the  decorations  of  their 
own  houses  ;  these  were  carried  out  on 
the  most  lavish  scale,  so  far  as  size  at 
least    was    concerned,    though    there 
was  a  curious  lack  of  variety  in  the 
combinations  of  star-spangled  banners 
or  in  the  poi*traits  of  favourite  cap- 
tains.     Among  the  last  it  was  clear 
that  Grant's  career  as  a  politician  had 
somewhat    injured    his  popularity  as 
compared    to    that    of    Sherman    or 
Sheridan,     while    Meade,    the     solid 
sensible  soldier  who  won  the  decisive 
battle     of    Gettysburg,     was    hardly 
commemorated  once  -,  this  is  only  one 
of  many  facts  which  seemed  to  show 
how  little  the  real  history  of  the  great 
struggle  had  remained  in  the  public 
memory.      There  could  be  no  doubt 


that  in  Detroit  the  visit  of  the  Army 
was  popular.      Every   house    on   the 
main  streets  was  gaily  decorated,  and 
most  of  those  on  the  side  streets,  while 
triumphal  arches  were  erected  at  the 
most  important  points.     Many  of  the 
fifty  thousand  veterans  were  accommo- 
dated in  private  houses,  but  for  those 
who  could  not  be  so  entertained,  big 
camps  were  formed  by  the  city ;  in  one 
of  the  public  grounds  twelve  thousand 
men    of  the    Grand    Army    revived 
their  experiences  of  war  by  sleeping 
under  canvas.        The    streets  during 
the  whole  week  were  extraordinarily 
gay,  for  besides  the  veterans  it  was 
estimated  that  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  visitors  were  in  the  town,  so 
that     the     population     was     nearly 
doubled.       Almost    every    man    was 
wearing  a  decoration  of  some  kind,  for 
the  American  carries  out  his  fondness 
for  ceremonial  thoroughly.      Besides 
the    ordinary    bronze    medal   of   the 
Grand  Army,  and  the   cross   of    the 
Loyal  Legion  (which  is  worn  only  by 
ex-officers),  there  were  endless  ribbon 
badges,  marking  the  Post  to  which  a 
man  belonged,  his  state,  his  position 
on  the  committee  of  reception   or  as 
the    representative    of    some    special 
interest.     These  marks  were  certainly 
picturesque,  and  added  colour  to  the 
plain  dark-blue   brass-buttoned   dress 
which  is  worn  by  the  veterans,  and 
which  was  the  old  undress  uniform  of 
the  war-time ;  but  to  a  European  eye 
they    rather     lacked    the    simplicity 
proper    to   military  decorations,    and 
were  too  suggestive  of  the  badges  of 
Foresters'  Lodges  or  of  Good  Templar 
Societies.       An    exception    must    be 
made    for   the    cross   of     the    Loyal 
Legion,  which   is  as  pretty  as  it    is 
honourable,   and  is    recognised  as    a 
badge  of  distinguished  service  in  the 
highest  military  circles  of  Europe. 

The  crowds  were  everywhere  good- 
humoured  and  well  behaved ;  indeed 
their  patience  and  order  were  most 
striking  to  a  visitor.  Drunkenness 
was  extraordinarily  rare  ;  we  only  saw 
one  drunken  veteran  in  four  days. 
In  fact  the  teetotal  zeal  of  some  of  the 

K  2 


132 


The  Gratid  Army  of  the  Bejncblic, 


good  people  of  Detroit  seemed  quite 
unnecessary ;  for  a  determined  effort 
had  been  made  by  a  small  number  of 
fanatics  to  have  all  intoxicating  liquors 
excluded  from  the  entertainment  of  the 
Army ;  one  obscure  chapel  had  gone 
so  far  as  to  issue  its  protest, — with 
almost  Papal  arrogance,  "  in  the  name 
of  Jesus  Christ  and  more  than  one 
thousand  Christian  young  men  of 
Detroit." 

Certainly  it  is  in  a  gathering  of  this 
kind  that  an  Englishman  can  best 
learn  what  a  Democratic  country 
means.  The  absolute  freedom  from 
formality  in  all  arrangements  was  a 
curious  contrast  to  our  home  cere- 
monials. There  were  no  cordons  of 
policemen  and  officials  to  secure  the 
privacy  of  distinguished  guests  or 
managing  committees ;  the  crowd  went 
wherever  it  pleased,  and  a  stranger 
could  pass  unchallenged  into  the  very 
head-quarters  of  the  Grand  Army,  and 
be  admitted,  if  he  chose,  to  an  inter- 
view with  the  commander-in-chief  him- 
self. The  halls  of  the  great  hotels  on 
the  first  day  of  the  gathering  were 
eadjraordinary  sights,  filled  as  they 
were  with  hurrying  committee-men, 
with  bands  playing,  with  ever  fresh 
arrivals  of  veterans ;  while  amid  the 
confusion  old  friends  recognised  each 
other,  and  strangers  were  introduced, 
in  an  atmosphere  thick  with  cigar 
smoke  and  good  fellowship. 

The  gathering  itself  lasted  four 
days,  but  it  was  only  on  the  first  two 
that  there  was  much  o£  the  nature  of 
public  celebration.  On  the  first  day 
there  was  the  great  procession,  which 
forms  the  chief  feature  of  the  proceed- 
ings. The  Grand  Army  then  is  form- 
ally reviewed  by  its  commander  as  it 
marches  past ;  but  in  order  to  give 
others  a  share  in  the  sight,  the  march 
is  continued  through  some  of  the  main 
streets  of  the  town.  On  this  occasion 
the  march  was  made  too  long,  for  the 
veterans  were  kept  moving  for  more 
than  two  hours,  without  reckoning 
the  time  spent  in  mustering  and  wait- 
ing to  start.  This  was  a  severe  strain, 
on  a  hot  August  day,  for  men  of  whom 


the  youngest  was  well  into  middle 
age;  and  hence  a  very  considerable 
number  did  not  march  at  all,  or  fell 
out  after  saluting  the  commander-in- 
chief.  But  the  procession  was  still 
very  imposing.  Of  course  the  numbers 
in  it  were  most  variously  estimated  by 
rival  newspapers.  We  can  only  say  that 
it  was  more  than  four  hours  between 
the  passage  under  our  window  of  the 
first  and  the  last  ranks  ;  and  that  after 
the  first  half-hour  the  halts  were  very 
rare  and  very  short.  The  Ohio  men 
especially  made  a  gallant  show ;  for 
nearly  forty  minutes  the  representa- 
tives of  the  Buck-Eye  State  were  de- 
filing by,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  line 
of  their  yellow  flags  would  never  end. 
It  was  evident  that  the  native  State 
of  Grant,  of  Sherman,  and  of  Sheridan, 
was  very  loyal  to  the  cause  which 
they  had  led  to  victory. 

The  procession  at  once  was  and  was 
not  very  imposing.  In  all  essentials  it 
was  a  most  striking  sight ;  for  most  of 
the  regiments  marched  exceedingly  well, 
and  as  a  rule  went  by  with  lines  well 
locked  up  and  a  firm  step  which  would 
not  have  discredited  the  Begulars  of 
any  army  in  Europe.  And  even  to  a 
visitor  it  was  a  most  striking  thought 
that  these  men,  after  seeing  as  much 
and  as  hard  fighting  as  any  soldiers 
of  our  time,  had  returned  into  civil 
society  and  settled  down  as  peaceful 
citizens.  There  had  been  nothing 
quite  like  it  in  history  since  Crom- 
well's Ironsides  broke  themselves  up 
and  returned  to  give  bone  and  sinew 
to  English  life.  Nor  were  there  lack- 
ing memorials  to  aid  the  mind  in  real- 
ising where  these  men  had  been,  and 
what  they  had  seen.  M^any  Posts 
carried  by  the  old  battle-flags  of 
their  former  regiments,  with  the  bul- 
let-rent rags  hardly  clinging  to  the 
pole.  One  relic  was  especially  inter- 
esting ;  before  the  Wisconsin  men  was 
carried  the  stuffed  form  of  the  famous 
eagle  "Old  Abe,"  which  attached  it- 
self closely  to  one  of  the  regiments 
early  in  the  war  and  went  unharmed 
through  all  the  hard  fighting  with  the 
soldiers  of  the  Badger  State^  and  which 


The  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic, 


133 


was  as  cherished  a  comrade  as  the 
famous  dog  of  the  Fusiliers  in  the 
English  army.  The  one  hundred  and 
twenty  bands  too,  which  were  scattered 
at  intervals  through  the  procession, 
played  well-known  war-tunes,  and  the 
veterans  stepped  out  more  briskly  than 
ever  to  the  familiar  strains  of  March- 
ing through  Georgia,  or  Shouting  the 
Battle-Cry  of  Freedom. 

But  there  were  other  elements  in 
the  procession  which  were  less  satis- 
factory. In  the  first  place  Democracy 
has  its  drawbacks  from  the  point  of 
view  of  spectacular  effect.  Instead  of 
the  close -kept  lines  of  an  English 
crowd,  with  mounted  policemen  at 
intervals,  and  even  the  dogs  well  in 
order,  we  had  spectators  who  went 
pretty  much  where  they  pleased  ;  they 
not  only  crossed  the  road  freely  in  the 
spaces  between  the  detachments,  but, 
where  the  ranks  were  at  all  loose, 
actually  went  right  through  the  de- 
tachments themselves.  And  the  march- 
ing was  at  times  very  loose  and 
slovenly ;  it  was  strange  that  any 
able-bodied  men  who  had  once  fought  so 
well,  should  now  march  so  badly.  But 
it  was  the  lack  of  organisation  which 
chiefly  impaired  the  impressiveness  of 
the  sight.  A.  procession,  especially  of 
dark  uniforms,  depends  for  its  effect 
on  its  regularity.  The  proper  depth 
of  front  was  twelve ;  but  the  men 
went  by  in  lines  of  every  variety  of 
strength,  and  sometimes  even  in  open 
order, — a  formation  in  which  the  best- 
drilled  troops  must  be  disappointing 
to  the  eye. 

This  lack  of  order  was  after  all  but 
a  small  matter.  It  is  impossible  to 
combine  the  maximum  of  popular 
enjoyment  with  perfect  formality,  or 
to  insure  uniformity  of  organisation 
in  men  gathered  from  every  corner  of 
a  continent ;  and  if  the  spectacle  suf- 
fered in  itself  from  being  somewhat 
broken  up,  at  all  events  more  could 
enjoy  it.  What  was  more  un- 
fortunate was  the  lack  of  serious- 
ness with  which  the  crowd,  and 
even  the  veterans  themselves,  seemed 
to  regard   the  whole  business.     The 


bands  were  the  worst  offenders  in  this 
respect.  Their  uniforms  often  looked 
like  the  cast-off  wardrobe  of  a  third- 
rate  circus  company ;  every  army  in 
Europe  was,  we  will  not  say  imitated, 
but  parodied.  There  were  bear-skin 
caps,  cuirassier  helmets.  Zouave 
shakoes  and  costumes,  and  too  many 
of  them  untidy  and  dirty.  And  while, 
as  has  been  said,  the  bands  often  gave 
the  real  war-music,  they  still  oftener 
indulged  themselves  in  the  marches 
of  second-rate  modern  operas  to  the 
neglect  of  the  historic  tunes.  Prob- 
ably no  single  song  did  more  for  the 
Union  Cause  than  John  BrownHs  Body ; 
yet  it  was  not  played  once, — at  any 
rate  in  our  hearing. 

And  the  veterans  too  seemed 
disposed  at  times  to  turn  the  whole 
affair  into  a  jest.  One  Illinois  Post 
went  by  under  red,  white  and  blue 
umbrellas,  intended  to  represent  the 
Star-Spangled  Banner,  though  they  had 
not  even  troubled  themselves  to  get 
the  number  of  the  stars  of  the  States 
right ;  others  led  along  with  them 
negroes  in  particoloured  dresses,  to 
serve  them  with  water ;  women  and 
girls  in  fancy  costumes  were  also  to  be 
seen  in  the  ranks.  Such  shows  would 
be  in  place  in  Barnum's  processions ; 
but  in  a  national  celebration  they 
struck  a  jarring  note.  And  on  the 
whole  there  was  very  little  effort  to 
bring  out  the  historic  significance  of 
the  scene.  The  old  war-flags  have 
been  mentioned,  and  some  of  the 
States  carried  their  peculiar  emblems  ; 
the  Minnesota  men  for  example  wore 
wheatears,  the  Kansas  men  sunflowers, 
the  Texas  men  a  great  pair  of  horns, 
with  the  ridiculous  inscription.  We 
never  draw  in  our  horns  ;  they  are  too 
long.  But  the  Massachusetts  men, 
who  carried  before  each  Post  the 
banner  of  their  State,  were  quite 
exceptional.  Flags  there  were  in 
plenty ;  but  they  were  as  a  rule  the 
trumpery  pennons  of  individuals,  or  the 
brand-new  gaudy  banners  of  the 
different  Posts,  and  not  in  the  least 
historical  or  important.  Some  of  our 
American    friends    did    not    seem    to 


134 


The  Grand  Army  of  the  Eepuhlic, 


notice  anything  wrong ;  to  us  the 
turning  of  the  greatest  war  of  modern 
times  into  an  occasion  for  second-rate 
theatrical  display  was  painful,  and 
seemed  to  indicate  something  wanting 
in  the  nation's  sense  of  its  own 
dignity. 

The  great  procession  was  followed 
in  the  evening  by  a  series  of  meetings, 
which  were  addressed  by  ex-President 
Hayes  (who  had  marched  that  day  as 
a  simple  "comrade  "  in  the  ranks),  the 
Secretary  of  War,  and  other  notabilities. 
This  year's  gathering  was  saddened  by 
the  fact  that  since  the  previous  August 
two  more  of  the  great  captains  of  the 
Union  had  passed  away ;  Sherman  and 
Admiral  Porter  had  died  within  a  few 
days  of  each  other,  and  now  there  is 
hardly  a  Northern  general  of  im- 
portance left.  The  speaking  was  of  a 
very  ordinary  character,  good,  but  in 
no  way  proving  the  superiority  of 
American  to  English  oratory  which 
Mr.  Bryce  assumes  as  a  fact.  There 
were  two  or  three  notes  in  the  speeches 
which  seemed  unfortunate.  One  was 
the  tendency  to  *'talk  tall."  It  is 
good  neither  for  oratory  nor  for 
edification  to  tell  an  audience,  as  one 
of  the  speakers  did,  that  the 
'*  Americans  now  were  the  best  and 
noblest  generation  who  had  ever 
existed  in  that  or  any  other  land." 
Another  was  the  injustice  of  attitude 
to  the  South.  It  is  perhaps  too  much 
as  yet  to  ask  a  Northern  orator  to 
drop  the  term  "  rebels  "  ;  but  the  fact 
might  be  recognised  that  I.ee  and 
Jackson  were  foes  worthy  of  any  man's 
steel,  and  that  a  full  share  of  the 
honours  of  the  war  belonged  to  the 
conquered.  There  was  a  good  deal  too 
much  of  the  '*  all- victorious  "  army  of 
the  Union ;  and  even  an  old  Northern 
sympathiser  could  not  fail  to  remember 
that  Chancellorsville  and  Fredericks- 
burg were  great  names  as  well  as 
Gettysburg  and  Appomatox.  In 
short,  the  speeches  were  marked 
throughout  by  a  tendency  to  sacrifice 
fact  to  sentiment ;  and  it  is  not 
surprising  if  the  present  generation 
fail   to    know  the   true  story  of   the 


war,  when  its  survivors  prefer  well- 
sounding  generalities  to  plain  straight- 
forward reference  to  its  actual  facts, 
which  it  might  be  thought  full 
enough  of  the  lessons  of  heroism  and 
patience  to  satisfy  any  orator.  These 
gatherings  lose  the  greater  part  of 
their  value  if  they  are  not  a  living 
memorial  to  the  younger  generation 
that  patriotism  means  blood  and  tears 
as  well  as  the  triumphant  prosperity  of 
the  Union. 

The  last  three  days  of  the  gathering 
were  of  a  much  less  formal  character, 
so  far  as  concerned  the  great  majority 
of  the  veterans,  although  on  the 
second  day  there  was  a  great  free  pic- 
nic provided  by  the  city,  and  a  grand 
display  of  fireworks.  It  was  not  un- 
pleasing  to  English  vanity  to  find  that, 
in  order  to  make  these  **  the  greatest 
show  ever  seen  on  either  side  of  the 
Atlantic,"  recourse  was  had  to  the 
old  country  and  to  the  well-known 
name  of  Pain.  But  picnics  and 
fireworks  are  much  the  same  all  the 
world  over,  and  the  real  interest  of  the 
gathering  now  centered  in  the  informal 
reunions  of  the  old  regiments,  and  in 
the  evening  "camp-fires."  There 
were  two  hundred  of  the  former  on  the 
Wednesday  alone.  This  reknitting 
of  old  friendships  would  almost  by 
itself  justify  all  the  trouble  and  ex- 
pense of  these  festivities;  and  cer- 
tainly the  veterans  themselves  think 
so.  "Camp-fires"  are  meetings  of  a 
very  informal  character,  in  which 
the  old  war-songs  are  sung,  and  any 
soldier  may  relate  his  experiences. 
Unfortunately  we  could  not  attend  any 
of  them,  but  to  judge  by  the  war-stories 
of  which  the  Detroit  papers  were  full 
they  must  have  been  most  delightful. 
It  was,  however,  a  shock  to  one's  feel- 
ings to  find  them  held  in  some  of  the 
principal  churches  of  the  city,  though 
not  in  those  of  the  Homan  or  the 
Anglican  communions. 

But  the  Grand  Army  is  a  great 
business  organisation,  and  its  officers 
had  much  to  do  besides  reviving  old 
memories.  There  was  first  of  all  the 
important  question   to   settle  of    the 


The  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic, 


135 


gathering-place  for  next  year.  This 
became  almost  a  trial  of  strength 
between  the  older  and  the  new  States, 
for  the  two  candidates  were  Washing- 
ton and  Lincoln  (in  Nebraska) ;  even 
the  names  were  significant,  as  there  is 
undoubtedly  a  strong  feeling  in  the 
West  that  Lincoln  is  to  displace  the 
first  President  as  the  national  hero. 
On  this  occasion,  however,  the  old 
city  triumphed,  though  by  a  narrow 
majority  of  less  than  forty  out  of 
over  seven  hundred  votes.  The  fact 
that  Washington  lay  within  easy 
reach  of  the  most  important  battle- 
fields of  the  war  undoubtedly  decided 
the  matter  in  its  favour.  There  was 
much  other  formal  business  to  discuss 
as  to  the  position  and  the  duties  of  the 
Grand  Army ;  but  the  only  other 
question  of  importauce  was  whether 
black  men  and  white  should  unite  in 
the  same  Posts  in  the  Southern  States. 
A  great  number  of  Northern  soldiers 
went  after  the  war  into  the  territory 
of  the  Confederacy,  and  it  was  very 
striking  and  significant  to  find  the 
majority  of  them  absolutely  refusing 
to  be  now  united  with  their  coloured 
brethren  -  in  -  arms.  The  commander- 
in-chief  in  his  report  recommended 
that  their  prejudices  should  be  recog- 
nised, and  that  separate  Posts  should 
be  formed  for  white  and  for  negro 
soldiers ;  but  this  recommendation  was 
overruled,  and  it  was  decided  by  the 
delegates  that  all  the  soldiers  of  the 
Union  should  be  on  an  equality,  what- 
ever their  colour.  It  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  the  Grand  Army  men  of 
the  South  will  carry  out  their  threat, 
and  secede  from  the  organisation. 

The  gathering  was  universally  pro- 
nounced to  be  the  most  successful  that 
had  been  held ;  and  it  is  certain  that 
all  who  took  part  in  it  spent  a  most 
delightful  week.  But  it  must  be 
added  that  there  is  in  many  quarters 
in  the  States  a  strong  feeling  against 
the  Grand  Army. 

It  is  attacked  mainly  on  two  grounds, 
first  as  being  a  great  political  engine, 
and  secondly  as  tending  to  keep  alive 
the  breach  between  North  and  South. 


There  is  much  to  be  said  for  both 
these  objections,  though  they  seem 
directed  rather  against  the  accidents 
than  the  essence  of  the  organisation. 
As  to  the  first,  there  is  no  doubt  (the 
Americans  themselves  go  out  of  their 
way  to  tell  you  of  it)  that  under  cover 
of  honouring  the  veterans  of  the  war, 
a  great  amount  of  political  corruption 
has  been  carried  on.  The  men  who 
fought  for  the  Union  deserve  all 
honour  ;  but  it  is  a  scandal  that  now, 
after  twenty-five  years,  the  amount  of 
pensions  paid  is  heavier  than  it  ever 
was,  and  (incredible  as  it  may  seem) 
is  actually  greater  in  amount  than 
the  sum  expended  by  any  of  the  great 
nations  of  Europe  on  its  standing 
army ;  the  annual  outlay  reaches  nearly 
£2,000,000  in  the  one  State  of  Michi- 
gan alone.  Unfortunately  this  has 
been  made  a  party  question.  A  por- 
tion oi  the  Democrat  Press  broadly 
insinuates  that  the  Grand  Army  of 
the  Republic  is  simply  an  instrument 
to  enable  the  Republican  party  to  get 
at  Uncle  Sam's  pockets.  On  the  other 
hand  the  Republicans  retort,  as  we 
heard  one  of  their  candidates  for  the 
Presidency  say  at  Detroit,  that  "  those 
who  now  attack  the  pensions  were 
during  the  war  either  in  hiding  or  in 
Canada."  It  is  to  the  credit  of  the 
Grand  Army  that  at  this  last  gather- 
ing it  passed  a  resolution  against  using 
its  organisation  for  political  purposes ; 
and  speaking  as  strangers,  we  can 
only  say  that,  unless  we  have  been 
peculiarly  fortunate  in  the  Grand 
A  rmy  men  we  have  met  (and  they  were 
many  and  of  all  ranks),  it  is  a  libel 
on  the  very  great  majority  of  them  to 
accuse  them  of  self-seeking  either  for 
themselves  or  their  party. 

As  for  the  second  objection,  that 
the  feud  with  the  South  is  kept  alive 
by  such  celebrations,  it  does  not  seem 
necessary  that  this  should  be  so.  Both 
sides  (with  a  very  few  exceptions)  now 
rejoice  in  the  issue  of  the  war;  it 
should  surely  be  possible  to  com- 
memorate without  bitterness  the  ex- 
ploits of  their  own  heroes,  while  doing 
full  justice  to  the   bravery  and  the 


136 


The  Grand  Army  of  th-e  Republic, 


cause  of  the  other  side.  A  generation 
or  two  will  bring  a  time  when  they 
will  be  able  to  unite  even  more  closely ; 
for  history  will  certainly  repeat  itself 
in  America,  and  the  granddaughters 
of  the  men  who  fought  in  the  trenches 
at  Vicksburg  and  died  in  the  "  death- 
angle  "  at  Spottsylvania,  will  sing  sym- 
pathetically the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  and 
Diode^s  Zanc?,  just  as,  one  hundred  years 
before  in  Great  Britain,  Bonnie  Prince 
Charlie  and  Bonnie  Dundee  became 
the  heroes  of  Scotch  lassies  whose 
grandfathers  had  never  mentioned 
their  names  without  a  prayer  that 
was  very  like  a  curse. 

And,  if  foreigners  may  speak  on 
the  matter,  the  advantages  of  the 
Grand  Army  celebration  are  obvious. 
Cruel  as  the  American  War  was,  and 
terrible  as  were  the  losses  it  involved, 
it  yet  brought  out  in  a  way,  unsus- 
pected even  by  themselves,  the,  true 
fibre  of  the  American  nation.  During 
this  century  they  had  enjoyed  a  career 
of  uninterrupted  prosperity,  chequered 
only  by  an  indecisive  war  with  Eng- 
land, and  a  successful  but  not  very 
glorious  war  with  Mexico.  Suddenly, 
by  the  great  struggle  for  the  Union, 


they  were  brought  for  the  time  into 
the  ranks  of  military  nations,  and  the 
world  learned  that  the  new  English 
fighting  blood  was  no  degenerate 
scion  of  the  old.  We  may  condemn 
war  as  much  as  we  will,  but  it  cer- 
tainly brings  the  poetry  into  the 
history  of  a  nation ;  and  it  may  be 
said  further  that  a  nation  which 
ceases  to  know  how  to  fight,  will  soon 
cease  to  know  how  to  prosper.  There 
is  no  danger  in  America  of  the  peace- 
ful virtues  which  bring  success  being 
neglected  ;  there  is  some  danger  (its 
own  citizens  think)  of  the  coming 
generation  having  too  easy  a  life 
owing  to  their  great  material  pros- 
perity. So  success  may  well  be  wished 
to  the  Grand  Army  in  its  endeavour 
to  keep  green  the  memory  of  those 
who,  in  the  words  of  the  gifted  writer 
whom  we  have  lately  lost,  and  who 
perhaps  more  than  any  other  man 
represented  the  noblest  feelings  of  the 
North  during  the  war, 

Whose  faith  an'  truth 
(")n  War's  red  tech  stone  rang  true  metal, 
Who  ventered  life  an'  love  an'  youth 
For  the  gret  prize  o'  death  in  battle. 


137 


IN  PRAISE  OF  MOPS. 


The  varieties  to  be  found  in  the  char- 
acter of  dogs  have  always  appeared  to  us 
a  most  interesting  study.  What  degrees 
of  morality,  intelligence,  self-control  do 
we  not  observe  in  their  different  fami- 
lies, from  that  narrow  and  uncertain- 
tempered  specialist,  the  greyhound,  to 
the  universally  popular  and  trusty  fox- 
terrier  whom  you  can  "  do  anything 
with,"  as  the  saying  is  !  This  axiom 
means  in  particular  that  the  habitual 
companion  of  so  many  Englishmen  is, 
like  that  equally  respectable  creature 
the  retriever,  susceptible  of  discipline 
to  no  ordinary  degree.  Many  a  humane 
man  has  held  up  a  terrier  of  the  fox  or 
bull  type  and  beaten  the  animal  as  he 
loved  it,  and  till  his  arm  ached.  Nor 
is  it  to  be  supposed  that  such  a  dog 
(whom  we  have  seen  struggle  after 
an  angry  swan  in  mid-stream  and 
triumphantly  pull  its  tail  feathers  out) 
is  exactly  afraid  to  retaliate.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  the  curly  black 
brute  (capable  of  carrying  a  good- 
sized  child  in  his  mouth)  whom  the 
keeper  chastises  to  an  accompaniment 
of  "  Ah  !  Ratt-eZ^  you  breeute  /  Wood- 
jerrr  /  "  There  are  dogs  of  course,  such 
as  the  wolf-hound  that  killed  the  un- 
fortunate Frenchman  the  other  day, 
that  one  would  hesitate  to  chastise  for 
the  reason  that  Kingsley  gives,  in  re- 
spect of  the  hero  of  his  famous  ballad  : 

The   clerk  that  should  beat  that    little 
Baltung, 
Would  never  sing  mass  again  ! 

But  as  there  are  human  natures,  and 
those  not  always  the  worst,  that  do 
not  take  "  punishment "  kindly,  so  are 
there  canine  natures.  The  difference 
lies  in  a  more  refined  sensibility  both 
of  soul  and  skin,  and  perhaps  in  a 
rarer,  more  feminine,  if  one  may  say 
BO,  and  more  spiritual  nature. 

Of  such  sort  is  the  dog  of  AA'hora  we 


write.  Mops  is  one  of  those  long- 
haired terriers  whom  to  know  is  to 
love.  No  one  could  ever  venture 
to  beat  him ;  he  would  probably 
go  wild  with  fright  or  passion ;  as 
it  is,  he  has  hardly  ever  had  a  rough 
word  spoken  to  him.  Mops  is  never- 
theless in  ordinary  circumstances  as 
good  as  gold.  If  his  sensitive  temper 
be  ever  hurt,  that  is  generally  the 
fault  of  some  person  who  has  ap- 
proached him  either  without  proper 
introduction,  or  in  a  manner  unsuited 
to  his  dignity.  It  is  his  habit  to  mark 
these  occasions  by  pretending  not  to 
know  his  dearest  friends,  as  they  pass 
while  he  lies  on  his  particular  mat  in 
the  hall ;  or  (in  very  extreme  cases)  by 
retiring  to  the  housekeeper's  room, 
much  to  the  elation  of  that  elderly 
dignitary,  and  growling  from  the  low 
and  cushioned  window-sill  at  all  who 
venture  into  his  presence  with  over- 
tures of  friendship.  There  are  points 
in  his  character  which,  in  such  an 
animal,  it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to 
alter  ;  but  these  are  not  the  low  or 
mischievous  tricks  of  common  dogs. 
He  would  scorn  to  run  after  a  chicken 
or  a  sheep.  Once  he  caught  a  very 
little  rabbit  on  the  front  lawn  and 
brought  it  with  tender  fondlings,  yet 
half  alive,  to  bed  with  him  in  his 
basket  by  the  drawing-room  fire, 
whence  the  horrified  housemaid  re- 
moved its  corpse  during  his  absence 
at  dinner-time.  He  has  also  been  con- 
fronted with  a  live  rat  with  which, 
though  exasperated  by  its  want  of 
humour,  he  for  long  endeavoured  to 
play,  till  it  bit  him,  when  there  was  an 
abrupt  end  of  the  game,  and  of  the 
rat.  But  Mops  has  decided  instinctive 
notions  about  how  certain  things  ought 
to  be  done,  and  equally  decided  aver- 
sions to  certain  people.  To  Mr.  BuUer, 
the  local  banker,  who  comes  over  to 


138 


In  Praise  of  Mops, 


dine  regularly  once  a  fortnight,  he  will 
never  be  more  than  severely  civil. 
Mops'  olfactory  nerves  have  doubtless 
informed  him  of  this  gentleman's  secret 
preference  for  fox-terriers,  of  which  an 
adorable  specimen  is,  at  home,  cherished 
in  his  bosom  ;  but  there  possibly  are 
other  reasons. 

We  have   not    mentioned   yet  that 
Mops  is  as  beautiful  as  the  day,  though 
this  is  not  a  very  appropriate  simile 
for  one  whose  first  appearance  suggests 
a  chaotic  heap,  or  dancing  cloud,  of 
dusky  hair  through  which   now   and 
then   you   catch   the    sparkle   of  two 
gleaming  dark- brown  eyes.     Such  he 
appears  (for  his  affections  and  enthusi- 
asms are  unbounded,  and  his  conduct, 
when    pleased,    of    the    frantic  order) 
bounding  or  rather  rippling  down  the 
stairs  to  fly  into  the  arms  of  some  wel- 
come arrival,  or  (supreme  joy  !)  to  be 
taken   out   for  a   walk   by  the  right 
person.     At  such  a  moment  he  will 
fling  shrieking  up  and  down  the  pas- 
sage and  over  and  under  the  furniture 
like  an  animated  football ;  but  when 
he  stops   dead   short,  or  jumps  upon 
your  knees,  shakes  back  his  hair  (which 
is  really  silver-gray,  almost  sky-blue 
in  a  strong  light)  with  a  prodigious 
effort,  and  grins  ecstatically  in  your 
face,  showing  all  his  splendid  teeth  and 
preparing   to   inflict   a   vigorous   kiss 
upon  any  unprotected  feature,  then  in- 
deed  not    the  famed  Peloton   of   Du 
Bellay, 

Faisant  ne  sgay  quelle  feste 
D'un  gay  braulement  de  teste, 

was  more  bewitching.  Having  men- 
tioned the  subject  of  teeth,  we  must 
add  that  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures 
of  Mops'  life  is  to  "  play  at  rats  "  with 
some  competent  human  friend.  This 
pastime  (which  is  only  allowed  on  the 
old  leather  settle  in  the  smoking-room) 
consists  chiefly  in  your  trying  to  bury 
him  in  cushions,  which  shordd  not  be 
of  expensive  material.  Then,  if  you 
have  on  an  old  velveteen  coat,  you  may 
after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  come  out  of 
the  game  (which  is  deliriously  exciting) 
with  only  a  black  and  blue  arm,  for 


which  you  will  be  amply  repaid  by  the 
sight  of  Mops  erect,  breathless,  and  in 
admired  disorder,  with  his  large  eyes 
gleaming  like  coals  of  fire  at  you 
through  their  hairy  curtain,  simply 
dying  to  begin  again. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  he  is  not 
what   is   vulgarly  called  a  "sporting 
dog,"  and  that  is  so.     Though  he  has 
no  idea  of  being  all  things  to  all  men, 
like   many  an   honest  dog  of   our  ac- 
quaintance,   he   can   be   anything    he 
pleases    (for    his   genius   is   rich   and 
versatile)   with   the  people   he  really 
loves.     We  often  summon  him  to  come 
partridge- shooting  with  us  in  the  fields 
close  round  the  house.     If  we  find  him 
not  in  the  gun-room,  we  are  used  to 
give  a  low  whistle.     Instantly  a  respon- 
sive and  piercing  bark  echoes  through 
the  back  premises, — Mops'  demand  ad- 
dressed to  domestics  in  general  to  open 
some  door  in  his  way ;  then  another, 
and    louder,    on   the  first   landing   to 
announce  his  approach  ;  then  the  noise 
of  a  carpet  being  dragged  swiftly  down 
the  front  stairs, — and  there  is  Mops. 
But  when  we  carelessly  pick  up  our 
breechloader  (and  this  we  always  do 
in   his   presence)  as   though    it    were 
merely   a   stick,   his  excitement  boils 
over,  and  his  yells  are  but  gradually 
allayed   as  we  get   outside   the   front 
door. 

Among  the  turnips  and  potatoes 
he  presents  the  strangest  figure,  his 
long  hair  draggled  with  the  wet,  and  his 
pointed  nose  and  broad  head  (for  once 
visible  in  their  natural  shape)  peering 
up  every  now  and  again  to  see  how  we 
are  getting  on.  Though  a  little  slow 
among  cover  which  often  hides  him 
from  sight,  he  will  quarter  his  ground, 
work  backwards  and  forwards  at  a 
wave  of  the  hand,  and  set  at  his  game 
in  the  most  orthodox  manner.  Mops, 
we  do  verily  believe,  would  scent  a 
cockchafer  ;  and  the  only  fault  in  his 
pointing  (a  thing  beautiful  to  behold 
in  its  amateurish  energy  and  self-con- 
sciousness) is  that  it  almost  as  often 
indicates  the  presence  of  a  thrush  as  of 
a  partridge.  As  to  passing  by  any 
living  thing  two  inches  high,  he  would 


In  Praise  of  Mops. 


139 


never  dream  of  it.  Then  will  he  return, 
his  little  legs  plastered  with  mud  and 
shrunk  to  half  their  size,  and  his 
splendid  hair  hanging  down  like  a 
Cretan  goat's,  exhausted  but  supremely 
happy,  and  retire  to  the  pantry  to  be 
brushed.  For  Mops  is  strong,  very 
strong ;  a  dog  of  this  size  need  be 
strong  to  carry  about  pounds  of  soil 
and  quarts  of  water  in  his  coat  all  day. 
The  coat,  by  the  way,  conceals  the  bull 
neck  of  his  species,  and  the  long  and 
solid  trunk  is  supported  by  substantial 
quarters  and  fine  stout  forearms,  so 
that  the  animal  is  by  no  means  only 
ornamental. 

As  to  his  use, — well,  let  this  sketch 
be  finished  with  the  story  of  Mops' 
only  real  adventure. 

Two  years  ago  his  owner  was  acting 
as  land-agent  in  a  much  disturbed 
district  of  Ireland,  and  lived  in  a  large 
and  ugly  mansion  where,  to  tell  the 
honest  truth,  some  one  else  ought  to 
have  been  living.  But  as  an  agent 
our  friend.  Major  D.,  did  his  duty  and 
was  detested  by  the  peasantry.  At  an 
earlier  stage  they  had  "  carded  "  one 
of  his  herds,  drowned  and  strangled  his 
calves,  and  even  fired  at  one  of  his 
daughters  (a  lovely  girl  of  sixteen) 
as  she  sat  in  loose  array  at  her  window 
one  summer  night.  The  bullet  is  in 
the  window-frame  to  this  day.  Her 
father,  who  was  annoyed,  replied  with 
a  shot-gun  and  two  heavy  sawdust 
cartridges  from  a  lower  story,  it  is 
believed,  to  some  effect.  This  however 
is  by  the  way.  Once  a  week,  at  the 
time  referred  to,  Major  D.  used  to  drive 
into  the  neighbouring  market-town, 
and  on  these  occasions  Mops  (consider- 
ably to  his  relief)  had  never  shown 
the  slightest  wish  to  accompany  him 
further  than  the  park-gate.  One 
Wednesday,  however, — it  was  a  day  or 
two  after  some  ill-looking  fellows  had 
been  seen  hanging  about  the  park, — 
Mops  suddenly  changed  his  mind.  He 
was  determined  to  go.  This  was  em- 
barrassing for  the  Major,  who,  apart 
from  the  trouble  of  looking  after  the 
dog,  was  afraid  of  risking  so  valuable 
an  animal  in  a  locality  so  distinguished 


for  what  is  called  in  Ireland  "  agrarian 
feeling."     What  was  to  be  done? 

Mops  was  locked  up  in  an  empty 
room  which  the  children  used  for 
carpentering.  His  lamentable  howls 
gradually  subsided,  and  the  rest  of  the 
household  went  about  their  business. 
Meanwhile  Mops,  as  afterwards  ap- 
peared, was  doing  a  little  carpentering 
on  his  own  account.  The  door  was  a 
good  sound  door,  but  the  floor  beneath 
it  was  rather  worn.  It  is  a  pity  that 
no  one  could  have  seen  his  muscular 
little  form  as  it  lay  there  curled  up  on 
one  side,  the  shaggy  head  savagely 
shaking  as  at  each  scrunch  of  his  gnaw- 
ing teeth  fresh  splinters  of  the  deal 
board  came  away,  and  were  swept  aside 
by  his  little  paws.  It  must  have  been 
hard  work,  harder  than  scraping  at 
any  rabbit-hole,  but  probably  more 
delightful ! 

Nearly  four  hours  had  passed  when 
an  astonished  domestic  noticed  and 
duly  reported  the  alteration  just  ex- 
ecuted by  Mops.  At  that  moment  a 
small  dark  form  might  just  have  been 
discerned  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening 
scudding  across  the  fields.  This  was 
Mops  going  to  meet  the  Major, — and 
why  in  Heaven's  name  going  at  all  ] — 
and  why  going  this  way  (the  shortest 
cut  as  it  happened)  and  not  along  the 
high  road"?  Who  shall  peer  into 
the  workings  of  that  strange  little 
mind,  or  whatever  we  please  to  call  it  ] 
It  is  certain  that  the  point  on  the  high 
road  aimed  at  by  Mops,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  was  just  about  where 
an  intelligent  being  would  have  ex- 
pected the  Major  to  be  if  he  were 
walking  home  (as  a  rule  he  drove)  at 
his  usual  hour,  and  it  is  equally  certain 
that  the  Major  was  there.  It  does  not 
appear  moreover  that  Mops  had  the 
slightest  doubt  of  this,  or  indeed  ex- 
hibited the  slightest  hesitation  as  to 
what  he  meant  to  do,  throughout  the 
whole  course  of  this,  his  one  ad- 
venture. The  Major  was  there,  and 
nothing  separated  Mops  from  him  but 
a  high  and  rough  stone  wall,  such 
stone  walls  as  are  peculiar  to  Ireland, 
where  they  have  witnessed,  and  in  their 


140 


In  Praise  of  Mops. 


mute  way  assisted,  many  ugly  deeds. 
One  of  these  in  fact  was  in  process 
when  Mops  arrived  after  a  frantic 
struggle  on  the  top  of  that  wall. 

Only  twenty  yards  before  reaching 
this  point  on  the  road  the  Major,  who 
for  reasons  of  his  own  had  sent  the 
carriage  on  and  was  walking  home  easily 
and  circumspectly  with  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth  and  a  double-barrelled  shot-gun 
under  his  arm,  was  suddenly  confronted 
by  a  ragged  and  dirty  masked  ruffian 
who  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the 
skies,  but  who  soon  proved  his  infernal 
origin  by  firing  a  heavy  horse-pistol 
of  antediluvian  date  right  into  the 
Major's  face.  As  the  heavy  slugs 
whistled  by  the  Major's  ear,  the  dirty 
ruffian  turned  and  fled  down  the 
deserted  road  into  the  gathering 
darkness. 

Our  friend,  whose  temper  had  been 
soured  by  the  society  of  a  disturbed 
neighbourhood,  leant  against  the  wall 
for  a  moment  to  steady  himself  and, 
allowing  the  proverbial  forty  yards' 
grace,  deliberately  let  off  two  barrels 
into  and  about  the  stern  of  his  retreat- 
ing enemy.  The  man  howled  fearfully, 
but  continued  his  course.  The  Major 
smiled,  but  the  next  moment  cursed 
his  folly  with  a  mighty  oath,  and 
turned  to  grapple  with  a  second  op- 
ponent who,  having  waited  his  oppor- 
tunity, sprang  upon  him  while  encum- 
bered with  his  useless  gun,  and  in  the 
surprise  bore  him  almost  to  the  ground. 
What  this  second  monster,  who  was 
also  masked  and  unshaven,  intended 
to  do  with  the  rude  agricultural  instru- 
ment, a  sort  of  broken  sickle,  which  he 


produced  at  this  moment,  must  be  left 
to  the  imagination,  for  at  this  moment 
his  attention  was  distracted. 

With  one  of  his  curious  little  gurg- 
ling shrieks  (like  the  bursting  of  a 
small  musical  instrument)  the  breath- 
less Mops  jumped,  or  fell  rather,  on  all 
fours  from  the  top  of  the  wall.  He  did 
not  spring  at  the  man's  calves,  as  dogs 
so  often  do ;  he  had  no  time  to  think 
of  that, — and  in  fact  alighted  a  little 
higher  up.  The  man  wore  moleskins, 
but  what  are  moleskins  to  a  little  dog 
who  makes  a  light  afternoon  meal  of  a 
bedroom  door  ?  Before  any  one  of  the 
three  knew  very  clearly  what  had 
happened  Mops  had  buried  ten  little 
teeth,  each  sharp  as  a  new  carving 
chisel,  in  the  most  fleshy  part  of  the 
objectionable  man's  thigh.  That  was 
all,  and  that  was  quite  enough.  The 
Major,  who  has  assisted  (in  the  French 
sense)  at  many  an  Irish  row,  and  seen 
a  good  deal  of  service  in  Egypt,  con- 
fesses that  he  never  heard  a  man  swear 
as  that  ruffian  did  just  before  he  was 
knocked  down  by  the  butt  of  the  empty 
gun. 

That  night  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
coming  and  going  of  police.  One  of 
the  individuals  arrested  will  carry  to 
the  end  of  his  life  (which  may  be  con- 
terminous with  the  end  of  his  imprison- 
ment) such  a  "  pretty  pattern  of  No. 
5  "  that  the  Major  has  more  than  once 
expressed  a  wish  **to  send  it  to  the 
makers,"  which  of  course  is  out  of  the 
question.  The  other  carried  away  as 
lively  a  recollection  of  Mops  as  we 
shall  any  of  us  have,  but  for  a  different 
reason. 


141 


OUR  FmST-BORN. 

She  came,  an  angel  in  om*  sight, 

We  took  her  as  a  gift  from  Heaven  ; 

She  gave  our  home  a  new  delight, 

Our  hearts'  best  love  to  her  was  given. 

We  harvested  her  every  look. 

And  watched  the  wonder  in  her  eyes ; 
What  constant  loving  care  we  took, 

How  patiently  we  soothed  her  cries. 

Her  lineaments  how  closely  conned ; 

Each'  parent  sought  the  other  there, 
Foretelling  her  brunette  or  blonde. 

With  golden,  or  with  raven  hair. 

Her  tiny  hands,  her  tiny  feet, 

A  sculptor's  di*eam,  despair  and  aim ; 

Did  even  Nature  form  more  sweet 
In  frail  perfection  ever  frame  ? 

Her  name,  a  lily  name  of  love. 
To  match  her  loveliness  of  life; 

Or  some  dear  name  one,  now  above, 
Has  left  with  fragrant  memories  rife. 

We  watched  her  grow  from  day  to  day, 
More  sweetly  than  a  flower  in  June, 

More  swiftly  than  a  leaf  in  May 
Unfolds  itself  to  gi-eet  the  noon. 

The  mandate  of  her  outstretched  hands. 
When  first  she  knew  a  loving  face. 

Was  mightier  than  a  Queen's  commands. 
And  dearer  than  her  proffered  grace. 

Her  keen  delight,  her  artful  ways. 

When  the  faint  light  began  to  dawn, — 

Great  pictures  fade,  but  memory  stays 
O'er  little  scenes  that  love  has  drawn. 

Then  came  at  length  the  crowning  bliss  ; 

How  oft,  the  babe  upon  her  knee. 
The  mother  sighed  with  yearning  kiss, 

**  When  will  my  darling  speak  to  me  !  '* 


142  Our  First- Bom. 

The  first  sweet  sounds  of  broken  speech, 
The  first  dear  words  that  love  inspires, 

How  weak  to  these,  the  heart  to  reach, 
The  music  of  a  thousand  lyres  ! 

The  eager  questions,  quaint  replies, 
The  awakening  of  the  childish  mind. 

The  queries  that  perplex  the  wise, 

The  griefs  and  joys  that  children  find. 

And  so  she  grew  still  more  and  more, 
Our  angel  guest,  our  gift  from  Heaven, 

Our  fii'stborn  child,  for  whom  the  store 
Of  love  waxed  more,  the  more  'twas  given. 

Xor  this  alone;  but,  like  the  cruise 
That  fed  of  old  the  prophefc  guest, 

No  danger  now  that  we  should  lose 
The  mated  love  of  either  breast. 

Nay  more, — by  subtler  creeds  be<:fuiled. 
We  learnt  with  joy  the  simpler  word. 

That  he  who  tends  a  little  child 
Is  worshipping  our  blessed  Lord. 


143 


A  ROMANCE  OF  CAIRO. 


I. 

It  is  more  than  thirty  years  ago 
since  Bevil  Brereton  arrived  in  Cairo 
and  found  there  the  fate  or  fortune 
of  which  this  is  the  only  complete  or 
authentic  history.  The  printed  ac- 
counts are  scrappy  and  misrepresent 
the  main  facts.  I  have  collected,  I 
think,  all  the  newspaper  paragraphs 
that  appeared  at  the  time  on  the  sub- 
ject. They  are  very  meagre,  and  I 
believe  an  Alexandrian  journal  pub- 
lished in  French  was  fined  for  men- 
tioning the  subject  at  all.  The  best 
account  appeared  in  a  Smyrna  news- 
paper, but  the  next  week's  issue  gave 
a  contradiction  of  the  story  evidently 
**  inspired."  The  whole  business  was 
hushed  up  by  the  authorities,  and 
there  are  one  or  two  incidents  in  it  so 
romantic  that  I  have  found  them  re- 
ceived with  incredulity  when  mentioned 
in  conversation. 

A  visit  to  Egypfc  was,  at  the  time  of 
which  I  am  writing,  an  uncommon 
thing,  as  it  was  a  longer  and  costlier 
trip  than  it  is  now.  Brereton  was  a 
man  of  leisure  and  money  who  had, 
or  fancied  he  had,  a  weak  lung.  He 
had  read  EotJien,  and  the  Crescent  and 
ths  Cross,  and  Palm  Leaves,  by  Monck- 
ton  Milnes,  and  he  was  drawn  to  take 
a  passage  on  board  a  P.  and  O.  steamer 
bound  for  Alexandria.  He  was  the 
only  passenger  for  Egypt )  the  other 
travellers  were  all  booked  for  India, 

He  reached  Cairo  on  a  pleasant  day 
in  November,  and  was  diiven  to  Shep- 
heard's  Hotel.  He  had  seen  a  dioramic 
picture  of  its  verandah  in  Albert 
Smith's  Eastern  entertainment,  and  a 
caricature  by  Richard  Doyle  of  the 
new-comer,  or  griffin,  in  the  clutches  of 
Arab  dragomans  and  donkey-boys  was 
the  last  thing  he  had  seen  in  a  London 
print-shop.     He  found  both  the  picture 


of  the  place  and  the  illustration  of 
manners  perfectly  accurate.  He  had 
an  introduction  to  the  Consul  and  to  the 
resident  doctor,  and  was  fortunate  in 
making  a  few  congenial  acquaintances. 

The  first  was  Keith  Grey,  an  artist ; 
the  other  two.  Sir  David  and  Lady 
Brabazon,  were  breaking  their  home- 
ward journey  from  India  by  lingering 
a  couple  of  months  in  Egypt.  The 
four  kept  together,  had  places  at  table 
next  to  each  other,  and  planned  excur- 
sions in  company.  Lady  Brabazon,  a 
clever  and  sympathetic  woman,  ob- 
tained Brereton' s  confidence  early  in 
the  day,  and  discovered  that  he  was 
in  love  ;  in  this  she  was  right.  She 
decided  that  the  course  of  his  love 
was  not  running  smoothly,  and  that 
this  accounted  for  his  visit  to 
Egypt  ;  in  this  she  was  wrong. 
Really,  the  girl  he  loved  loved  him 
in  return.  The  match  was  suitable, 
and  there  was  a  chance  of  pretty  Vera 
Cathcart  coming  with  her  parents  to 
Egypt  if  they  could  make  a  rendezvous 
with  a  certain  uncle  who  held  a  legal 
appointment  in  the  Straits  Settlements, 
and  who  thought  of  wintering  in  Cairo. 
One  other  point  about  Brereton  Lady 
Brabazon  discovered — he  had  no  re- 
lations. He  was  an  only  son  of  an 
only  son.  He  had  no  real  estate,  but 
money  invested  in  Government  and 
other  securities.  He  often  called  him- 
self "  a  waif  and  a  stray,"  and  spoke 
of  buying  a  property  and  settling  on  his 
return.  These  are  all  the  circum- 
stances that  are  necessary  to  be  known 
in  order  to  explain  the  subsequent 
action  or  inaction  of  the  little  group 
of  persons  who  were  associated  with 
Brereton  in  these  days  at  Cairo. 

Cairo  in  the  last  days  of  Said  Pasha, 
and  in  the  early  days  of  Ismail,  was 
very  different  from  the  Cairo  of  to- 
day.    The  large  Europeanised  quarter 


144 


A  Romance  of  Cairo. 


which  bears  the  name  of  the  first 
Khedive  did  not  exist.  There  was  no 
lion-guarded  bridge  over  the  Nile : 
the  palaces  at  Gezireh  and  Gizeh  were 
not  built ;  and  the  long  avenues  of 
lebbek  trees  that  are  now  the  favourite 
afternoon  drives  of  residents  were  un- 
planted.  The  Muski  was  an  Eastern 
bazaar,  covered  with  a  roof  of  matting 
and  full  of  shops  piled  with  carpets, 
brass-work,  many-socketed  lamps,  and 
tables  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl ; 
now  it  is  a  vulgar  street,  disfigured  by 
the  hideous  dummies  of  advertising 
tailors.  The  Ezbekieh  was  the  most 
Europeanised  quarter,  but  there  was 
no  enclosed  garden,  only  an  open  space 
shaded  by  tufts  of  umbrageous  trees. 
Napoleon's  head-quarters  were  still 
standing,  and  there  was  no  straight 
Boulevard  Mohammed  Ali,  but  a  net- 
work of  narrow  streets  with  windows 
latticed  with  mushrehiyehs  of  intricate 
tracery  occupying  all  the  space  between 
Ezbekieh  and  the  citadel.  The  Shubra 
Koad  was  the  one  drive,  the  Avenue 
de  Boulogne  of  Cairo,  and  this  stretched 
from  the  railway  station  to  the  dis- 
used palace  of  Mohammed  Ali.  It 
was  then  on  Sundays  and  Fridays  the 
universal  resort,  and  it  is  now,  though 
unfrequented  and  unfashionable,  a 
place  full  of  fascination.  The  lights 
that  glint  on  the  gnarled  and  twisted 
sycamore  stems,  the  thick  canopy  of 
leaves  overhead,  the  fields  to  the  right 
with  theii'  yokes  of  buffaloes,  groups 
of  turbaned  peasants  and  flocks  of 
goats  perplex  the  artist  by  the  variety 
of  subjects  they  offer  to  his  pencil. 
For  when  he  has  selected  one  and  begun 
the  outline  of  a  solemn  sheikh  under  his 
palm-tree,  a  line  of  swinging  camels 
passes  across  the  scene  and  lies  down 
to  be  unladen,  and  he  finds  he  has 
begun  half  unconsciously  to  sketch 
the  arching  necks  and  heavy  trappings 
which  seem  all  you  want  for  a  fore- 
ground, until  a  cluster  of  women, 
balancing  water -pitchers  on  erect  heads 
and  bearing  luscious  stems  of  sugar- 
cane, occupy  the  place  and  give  a  new 
motive  to  the  picture.  Brereton  daily 
frequented  this  road,  and  found  plea- 


sure in  watching  the  ti.gui*es  that 
travelled  along  it.  But  his  interest 
was  not  that  of  a  painter.  Grey 
sketched,  and  was  always  looking  out 
for  sketches,  but  Bevil  sought  to  guess 
the  characters  of  the  men  who  re- 
clined languidly  in  theii*  carriages, 
and  to  discern  what  manner  of  women 
they  were  whose  faces  were  half  hidden 
by  muslin  veils  and  blinded  carriage 
windows. 

This  at  least  was  the  state  of  his 
mind  one  evening  as  he  looked  with 
more  curiosity  than  was  quite  well- 
bred  into  a  carriage  that  drove  slowly 
past  him  down  the  sycamore  avenue. 
He  had  seen  the  carriage  in  the  same 
place  on  six  successive  evenings.  Every 
Sunday  and  Friday  for  three  weeks  it 
had  passed  him  at  the  same  slow  pace 
close  to  the  same  spot.  The  carriage 
was  well-appointed,  with  a  coronet  and 
a  crescent  on  the  panel;  the  black 
horses  were  carefully  groomed,  the 
syces,  or  running  footmen,  wore  jackets 
ablaze  with  gold,  and  the  coachman 
was  trim  in  European  livery  and  red 
fez.  On  a  bay  horse  which  kept  pace 
with  the  brougham  was  a  tall  gaunt 
eunuch,  who  never  seemed  to  keep 
his  eyes  off  the  caiTiage.  Neither 
did  Brereton.  Directly  it  entered 
the  avenue  it  seemed  to  possess  a 
peculiar  fascination  for  him.  It  is 
impossible  to  say  what  first  attracted 
his  attention.  There  were  a  dozen 
other  carriages  on  the  road  just  like 
this  one,  but  for  some  mysterious 
reason  this  was  the  only  one  he  ever 
saw.  If  it  be  urged  that  this  interest 
was  inconsistent,  improper,  even  un- 
justifiable, seeing  that  he  was  in  love 
with  Yera  Cathcart,  I  can  only  say 
that  experience  proves  every  day  that 
men  and  women  do  inconsistent,  im- 
proper, and  even  unjustifiable  things. 
He  was  young  and  idle  and  disposed  to 
gather  his  rosebuds  from  any  bush 
that  showed  pretty  flowers.  The  oc- 
cupant of  the  brougham,  a  lady  with 
large  soft  eyes  and  cream- white  fore- 
head and  mysterious  veil  of  gauze,  had 
magnetic  power,  and  drew  him  every 
week  to  the  Shubra  Koad,  and   bade 


A  Romance  of  Cairo, 


*■» 


145 


him  pause  near  the  particular  sycamore 
under  the  shade  of  which  she  regularly 
stopped.  At  last,  as  was  natural,  the 
eunuch  noticed  his  persistency  and 
seemed  annoyed  thereby.  At  all  events 
the  carriage  did  not  stop  on  the  fourth 
Friday  at  all. 

Now  there  was  at  that  time  among 
the  many  mendicants  of  Cairo  a  certain 
dwarf  called  Idris.  He  was  a  favourite, 
for  he  had  a  roguish  smile  and  a  funny 
appealing  look,  and  he  never  pestered 
passengers  for  bakslieesh  but  took  a 
shake  of  the  head  for  a  negative,  there- 
by contrasting  with  the  blind  Copt,  and 
the  man  with  a  fin  instead  of  a  hand, 
and  the  legless  cripple  who  dragged 
himself  along  the  pavement,  and  all  the 
ghastly  shapes  that  seemed  to  have  been 
emptied  out  of  Milton's  lazar-house 
into  the  dusty  road  whenever  and 
wherever  the  rich  were  gathered  to- 
gether. Brereton  often  gave  a  piastre 
to  the  dwarf  and  an  acquaintance  grew 
up  between  them.  Perhaps  the  fact 
that  Idris  was  also  a  pensioner  of  the 
mysterious  lady  secured  the  English- 
man's interest  in  him.  Every  week 
the  dwarf  received  an  alms  from  the 
lady,  who  threw  it  from  the  carriage 
window  just  before  she  signalled  the 
coachman  to  drive  home.  She  usually 
stayed  late,  and  on  receiving  her  gift 
Idris  made  his  salaams,  and  trotted  off 
at  a  wonderful  pace  to  his  hut  in  the 
Fagalla.  This  programme  had  been 
punctually  carried  out  for  more  than  a 
month.  No  word  had  ever  passed 
between  the  four  actors  in  the  odd* 
drama,  but  they  seemed  obliged  to  go 
through  the  performance  as  if  under  a 
spell.  They  drove  to  the  same  place  : 
they  looked  at  each  other  for  the  same 
time  with  the  same  expression  ;  but 
none  of  them  save  the  dwarf  who 
earned  four  piastres  a  week  was  the 
better  for  the  performance. 

II. 

Thus  time  passed  until  the  end  of 
January  when  Brereton  received  a 
letter  from  England.  It  announced 
that  Miss  Cathcart's  father  had  heard 
that  his  brother,  the  Straits  Settlements 
official,  had  resolved  to  stay  in  Cairo 

No.  386. — VOL.  Lxv. 


for  three  months,  and  so  they  were  all 
coming  out.  They  asked  Brereton  to 
take  rooms  for  them  at  Shepheard's,  and 
gave  the  date  of  their  arrival.  Some 
engagements,  and  a  slight  attack  of 
fever,  kept  Bevil  from  going  to  the 
Shubra  between  the  time  of  the  arrival 
of  the  letter  and  the  appearance  of  the 
Cathcarts.  Vera  had  improved  since 
he  had  seen  her.  She  was  just  at  the 
age  when  time  seems  busiest  in  enhanc- 
ing a  girl's  attractions.  The  sea  voyage 
and  the  frank  enjoyment  of  new  scenes 
and  experiences  had  given  vivacity 
to  her  eyes  and  a  rose  ilush  to  her 
cheek — the  outward  signs  of  that  sense 
of  interest  and  happiness  in  life  that 
glorifies  beauty  of  colour  and  feature 
with  that  magical  gift  of  the  fairies  we 
call  by  the  name  of  Charm.  Bevil  and 
Vera  had  been  neighbours  in  England 
and  had  enough  home  subjects  in  com- 
mon to  give  them  comparisons,  allu- 
sions and  reminiscences  wherewithal 
to  enhance  the  pleasure  of  foreign  sight- 
seeing. When  people  can  say  often, 
"  Is  not  that  like  so  and  so  ] "  and 
"  Does  not  that  remind  you  of  such 
and  such  a  place  1"  they  have  links 
which  make  them  enjoy  each  other's 
society.  So  it  happened  that  for  a 
short  time  the  Eastern  wife  was  for- 
gotten, and  the  Western  maid  reigned 
in  her  stead.  But  Friday  came,  and 
the  Rotten  Bow  of  Cairo  had  to  be 
shown  to  the  new-comers.  With  an 
odd  feeling  of  uneasiness  Bevil  took  his 
seat  in  the  carriage  with  Vera  and 
her  mother.  He  pointed  out  the  scenes 
and  figures  they  passed  :  he  was  amus- 
ing on  the  gaudy  dresses  of  the  Levan- 
tine ladies,  and  the  airs  of  the  young 
natives  who  were  just  then  beginning 
to  coat  themselves  with  French  varnish  ; 
but  he  was  looking  all  the  time  eagerly 
for  the  brougham.  It  was  not  there. 
They  came  to  the  sycamore  he  knew  so 
well.  There  was  neither  carriage  nor 
eunuch,  hut  there  was  Idris  the 
dwarf. 

"  What  a  quaint  creature  !  He  would 
do  for  the  Hunchback  in  the  Arabian 
Nightft,    or   Nectabanus  in  21ie  I'alis 
man  J"  Thirty  years  ago  English  ladies 
knew  Scott. 


146 


A  Romance  of  Cairo, 


The  dwarf  seeing  the  party  were 
new-comers  began  his  usual  perform- 
ance, a  song  and  dance  ending  by 
balancing  his  staff  on  his  chin. 
During  these  antics  he  managed  to 
come  close  to  Bevil  and  thrust  a  letter 
into  his  hand.  This  done  he  stopped 
quickly,  and  held  his  open  palm  for 
baksheesh.  Directly  he  had  received 
his  piastres  he  disappeared,  and  as  it 
was  near  sundown  the  party  drove 
quickly  homewards.  Directly  he  was 
in  his  room  Bevil  locked  the  door  and 
took  out  the  note.  It  was  in  French 
and  contained  only  these  words  : 
"You  can  save  me  from  prison,  and 
perhaps  death,  if  you  come  to  the 
garden  of  the  Gem  Palace  to-morrow 
at  ten  o'clock." 

The  handwriting  was  disguised,  and 
one  word  was  misspelt,  but  Bevil  never 
questioned  the  fact  that  it  came  from 
the  veiled  lady.  He  read  it  and  re- 
read it,  utterly  puzzled  and  weaving  a 
dozen  theories  and  romances.  A  ser- 
vant roused  him  by  knocking  at  his 
door  and  telling  him  the  gong 
had  sounded  ten  minutes  ago.  He 
dressed  and  went  to  dinner  with  rather 
inconsistent  explanations  of  his  dila- 
toriness. 

Once  with  Yera  Cathcart,  however, 
the  message  was  forgotten.  He  had 
been  growing  more  and  more  attached 
to  her  during  the  recent  days,  and  she 
had  never  looked  more  beautiful  than 
on  that  evening.  Brereton  was 
coming  to  himself.  The  fancy  that 
mystery  and  romance  had  woven  had 
been  torn  to  pieces,  and  had  vanished 
to  the  limbo  of  vanities.  When  he 
said  "  good-night "  that  evening  he 
felt  that  he  loved  Yera  as  he  had 
never  loved  before,  and  that  he  must 
ask  her  to  be  his  wife  the  next  day. 
In  a  mood  compact  of  hope  and  dis- 
trust he  strolled  out  on  the  terrace 
and  flung  himself  on  a  long  chair. 
The  moonlight  was  raining  a  shower 
of  silver  radiance  over  everything. 
The  terrace  and  the  knotted  syca- 
mores which  rose  in  groups  in  the 
open  space  that  then  stretched  in  front 
of  the  hotel  to  the  Ezbekieh,  the  high 


white  houses  in  the  distance,  the 
minaret  circled  with  a  coronet  of 
light  in  honour  of  some  festival — all 
blended  to  form  a  picture  of  repose 
which  lulled  the  lover  into  a  reverie. 
He  was  roused  by  the  voices  of  two 
men  who  had  taken  their  seats  at  a 
table  close  by.  They  spoke  French 
and  had  talked  some  time  before  he 
heard  them  at  all.  Then  he  only  had 
a  vague  impression  that  their  words 
jarred  on  the  subject  of  his  thoughts. 
After  a  time  he  disentangled  them 
from  his  own  fancies  and  found 
how  they  recalled  that  which  he 
had  been  pleased  to  forget.  When  he 
began  to  attach  a  meaning  to  their 
speech  he  naturally  looked  round  to 
see  what  manner  of  men  they  were. 

They  were  moustached  swarthy 
persons  in  Stambouli  coats  and  fezes, 
men  cut  to  the  Egyptian  official 
pattern  and  in  no  wise  remarkable. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  one,  "Effendina 
knows  all.  He  is  unwilling  while  the 
Delegate  Ingleeze  is  here  to  make 
public  scandal,  but  she  has  gone  too 
far " 

"Which  means,"  said  the  other, 
"  that  a  certain  friend  of  ours  has  set 
his  heart  on  the  Gem  Palace.  The 
scandals  have  been  told  by  him  and 
have  lost  nothing  in  the  telling.  The 
Pasha  has  determined  that  she  shall 
drink  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  that  he  shall 
have  three  palaces  instead  of  two.  But 
let  him  take  care  ;  if  she  suspects  him 
she  will  bring  him  down  with  her  !  " 

"Impossible!  What  can  she  do? 
She  is  closely  watched.  The  dwarf, 
Idris,  whom  she  employs,  is  in  the 
Pasha's  pay " 

"  And  in  everybody  else's.  I  have 
known  her  for  twenty  years.  She  has 
never  failed  in  any  of  her  plans.  There 
was  Hassan  Makmoud  Pasha,  who 
would  hot  sell  her  the  estate  at  Tanta. 
He  died  suddenly.  There  was  the 
Greek  Consul  whose  wife  said  she  was 
looking  old.  He  was  recalled.  There 
was  Haig  Agopian,  the  sharpest  Ar- 
menian in  Egypt.  He  refused  to  lend 
her  the  usual  £5,000  on  her  diamonds 
after  they   had    gone   to   Yusef   Ben 


A  Ronimice  of  Cairo. 


147 


Issachar  the  Jew  to  be  reset.  The 
bank  had  a  run  on  it  and  was  ruined 
in  six  months.  All  those  who  have 
thwarted  her  have  been  disgraced  or 
have  died.  The  last  story  is  that  she 
has  declared  it  to  be  her  ambition  to 
have  an  Englishman  at  her  feet." 

"  That  would  not  be  difficult  I  should 
think." 

"  Hush  !   speak  lower." 

The  rf^st  of  the  conversation  was 
inaudible,  but  Bevil  had  heard  enough 
to  keep  him  from  sleeping  for  some 
hours.  He  turned  the  matter  over 
and  over.  Could  the  wicked  princess 
be  the  veiled  lady  ?  The  mention  of 
the  dwarf  Idris  seemed  to  favour  the 
idea,  but  Idris  was  employed  by  many. 
Then  the  second  clue  came  to  his  mind. 
The  princess  lived  in  the  Gem  Palace  ; 
so  did  the  writer  of  the  note  he  had 
received  that  evening.  What  could  be 
the  object  of  that  summons  1  An 
obvious  suggestion  occurred  to  him. 
He  wondered  if  a  month  ago  he  should 
have  been  fool  enough  to  have  followed 
up  the  adventure.  The  reply  to  the 
question  was  merged  in  other  and 
pleasanter  visions.  What  did  he  care 
for  this  Cairene  Lucrezia  Borgia  and 
her  plots  ?  To-morrow  he  was  to  receive 
an  answer  which  would  decide  his 
future  from  the  sweetest  lips  in  the 
world,  and  busy  in  imagining  the  smile 
that  would  accompany  that  answer,  he 
fell  asleep. 

III. 

The  dream  came  true.  The  next 
day,  in  the  orchard  of  palms  hard  by 
the  hotel,  he  proposed  and  was  ac- 
cepted. The  happiness  of  both  seemed 
secure.  In  many  ways,  besides 
equality  of  age  and  fortune,  the  match 
seemed  promising.  Bevil  and  Vera 
were  alike  in  tastes,  and  had  many 
common  interests.  The  isolation  of 
Bevil's  position  had  prevented  him 
from  being  coloured  and  moulded  by 
family  life,  and  some  softer  traits  were 
lacking.  But  marriage  with  a  woman 
like  Vera  seemed  likely  to  prevent  the 
lovable  side  of  his  character  from 
hftrdening. 


The  day  was  spent  in  making 
pleasant  plans,  and  in  those  mutual 
questionings  and  discoveries  of  sym- 
pathy in  the  past  which  are  new  cords 
of  attachment. 

There  was  then  little  society  in  the 
modern   sense  in   Cairo,  and  the  en- 
gagement was  not  buzzed  about  and 
commented  upon.     Only  two  or  three 
of    the   closer    acquaintances   of    the 
Cathcarts  were  tola  of  it  and  offered 
congratulations.       In    the    afternoon 
the      betrothed      lovers     drove      out 
together   and   of    course  went  to  the 
Shubra    Road.       From    the    moment 
when  he  asked  Vera  to  take  a  stroll 
in    the   palm   orchard    that    morning 
Bevil  had  thought  of  nothing  save  his 
victorious  love,  but  now  the  familiar 
avenue,    the   gnarled   sycamores,    the 
canopy  of  foliage,  the  alternating  sun 
and  shadow,  and  the  groups   of    gay 
carriages  (for  it  was  Friday),  brought 
back  the  other  memory.     They  drove 
almost  to  the  palace  gate,  then  turned. 
A  few  yards  from  the  usual  spot  he 
saw    Idris.        The    dwarf     evidently 
expected  him  to  stop,  and,  he  fancied, 
made    a    signal   to   him.       The   next 
moment  he  came  up  with  the  brougham 
and,  perhaps  by  accident,  perhaps  at  a 
sign  to  the  native  coachman,  his  own 
open    victoria    stopped.      He    looked 
instinctively   into    the    window,    and 
met    the   full    gaze   of    the   princess. 
She  had  the  slightest  film  of   muslin 
over  her  mouth  and  he  saw  her  whole 
face.      The   eyes   were   blazing    with 
passion,    the    nostrils    distended,   the 
teeth  set,  the  great  lips   shut  tight. 
As  Bevil  caught  sight  of  the  mask  he 
instinctively  put  up  his  hand  to  shelter 
his  Vera.     The  princess  saw  the  pro- 
tecting   action.      He    scarcely    knew 
whether   it    was  fancy  or    fact,     but 
he     thought     she    made    a    counter 
gesture  with  her  henna-tipped  fingers 
as     if  drawing    something   from    her 
bosom. 

"  What  a  strange  face  looked  out 
of  that  carriage  window,"  said  Vera. 
"  It  reminded  me  of  one  of  Le  Brun's 
prints  in  the  study  at  home." 

**  Our    dwarf     does    not    seem    as 

h  2 


148 


A  Romance  of  Cairo. 


cheerful  as  usual  to-night,"  said  Bevil, 
shrinking  from  the  subject. 

"He  looked  keen  enough  as  he 
passed  us  in  the  orchard  of  palms 
this  morning,"  said  Vera. 

"  Did  he  pass  us  there  1 "  asked 
Bevil.     "  I  did  not  see  him." 

"  I  thought  you  did  not,"  said  Vera 
archly. 

IV. 

The  next  day  there  were  unmistak- 
able signs  of  something  wrong  at  the 
hotel.  The  waiters  were  clustered  in 
groups  in  the  passage,  not  marshalled 
at  their  posts.  The  manager,  usually 
oiled  and  curled,  was  standing  on  the  ter- 
race running  his  hands  wildly  through 
his  hair.  Two  janissaries  from  the 
English  Consulate  were  stationed  at 
the  door,  and  two  more  were  st^,nding 
sentry  over  a  line  of  native  fifeirvants 
who  were  drawn  up  in  the  garden. 
The  guests  were  talking  vociferously 
on  the  terrace  and  the  words  "  sus- 
pected," "  robbery,"  "  immense  value  " 
were  bandied  about.  In  brief,  a  serious 
robbery  had  been  committed  and  Lady 
Brabazon's  jewels  had  been  stolen. 
The  topic  occupied  everybody  for  the 
day,  and  the  wildest  and  most  unlikely 
conjectures  were  hazarded  as  to  the 
nationality  of  the  thief  and  the  method 
of  his  procedure.  A  little  later  the 
reports  were  absurdly  contradictory. 
"  This  was  the  first  robbery  that  had 
ever  taken  place  at  the  hotel — " 
"There  was  a  robbery  regularly  every 
season — "  "  Lady  Brabazon's  parure 
was  worth  £2,000—"  "  Lady  Braba- 
zon's  parure  was  entirely  paste." 

The  usual  nine  days  passed,  however, 
and  the  interest  of  all  but  the  plun- 
dered lady  and  the  hotel-keepers  cooled. 
Cairo  was  soon  to  find  a  more  absorb- 
ing topic  of  conversation. 

One  evening  Vera  had  retired  early, 
tired  with  a  long  ride  to  the  Mokattam 
Hills,  and  Bevil  was  intending  to  sit 
on  the  terrace.  To  avoid  a  twentieth 
description  of  the  robbery  from  Sir 
David  whom  he  saw  bearing  down 
upon  him,  he  strolled  down  the  steps 


into  the  open  f^ace.  He  had  not  gone 
far  when  he  was  accosted  by  a  thin 
man  in  a  black  coat  and  red  fez. 
Thinking  he  was  one  of  the  usual  crowd 
of  applicants  for  baksheesh  Bevil  hurried 
on,  but  hearing  the  man  say  something 
about  the  robbery  and  mention  the 
name  of  Lady  Brabazon  he  stopped. 

"  Does  the  kha-wd-gah  Ingleeze 
English  gentleman]  want  to  find  all 
}he  things  for  the  sitt  [lady]  1  If  he 
will  come  with  me  he  can,"  said  the 
man.  **  Look  here  " — and  he  showed 
a  bracelet  of  sparkling  diamonds. 

There  was  no  mistake  about  this 
action,  and  Bevil,  thinking  he  might  be 
on  the  scent,  stopped  under  one  of  the 
oil  lamps  which  were  suspended  from 
the  branches  of  the  trees  few  and  far 
between.  He  now  saw  that  the 
speaker  was  a  negro  and  that  he  un- 
doubtedly had  some  superb  diamonds 
in  his  black  fingers. 

"  Give  me  those,"  said  the  English- 
man. 

He  laid  them  in  Bevil's  hand  and 
beckoned  him  to  come  a  little  further, 
pointing  to  a  small  booth  near  a  clump 
of  trees  where  there  were  some  other 
figures.  Assured  by  the  man's  readi- 
ness to  give  him  up  the  jewels  he  fol- 
lowed, but  directly  he  stepped  out  of 
the  ring  of  the  lamplight  he  was 
struck  down  by  a  violent  blow  with  a 
stick  which  laid  him  stunned  on  the 
ground.  Two  strong  slaves  caught 
him  up,  muffled  his  head  in  a  shawl  and 
carried  him  to  a  carriage  which  stood 
waiting.  The  man  who  had  accosted 
him  took  the  bracelet  from  his  hand 
with  a  quiet  laugh,  and  gave  a  few 
directions  to  the  coachman  and  the 
slaves.  Then  he  got  into  another  car- 
riage in  which  a  dwarf  was  seated,  and 
the  two  carriages  drove  away  into  the 
darkness. 

V. 

The  particulars  of  Brereton's  seizure 
were  obtained  long  afterwards  from  a 
pencil  narrative  written  by  himself. 
Neither  his  friends  nor  the  authorities 
had  anything  to  go  upon.  A  waiter 
at  the  hotel  saw  him  light  a  cigar  aad 


A  Romance  of  Cairo. 


149 


go  down  the  steps  about  ten  o'clock. 
Nothing  more  was  known.  The  open 
space  before  Shepheard's  was  ill-lighted, 
and  was  not  considered  very  safe  after 
dark ;  but  no  disappearance  like  this 
had  ever  been  recorded,  and  indeed  rob- 
beries of  Englishmen  were  not  frequent. 
The  police  arrangements  at  Cairo  were 
slovenly,  but  they  had  a  certain 
vigour  of  procedure  which  detected 
crime  when  it  was  understood  that  the 
Government  was  in  earnest.  The  Eng- 
lish Foreign  Office  wrote  despatches, 
and  the  Consul-General  had  interviews 
with  the  Pasha.  The  native  authorities 
were  pressed  so  hard  that  they  were 
shaken  out  of  their  apathy,  and  spared 
neither  threats,  bribes,  nor  beatings, 
but  nothing  could  be  ascertained. 
From  that  February  night  Bevil 
Brereton  vanished,  and  all  record  of 
him  was  obliterated. 

I  have  read  all  the  official  correspond- 
ence which  passed  relating  to  "  the 
remarkable  disappearance  of  an  Eng- 
lishman," and  examined  files  of  news- 
papers to  find  all  the  printed  informa- 
tion on  the  subject,  but,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, it  is  inaccurate  and  inconsistent. 
A  draft  of  a  will  was  found  in  his 
letter-case,  leaving  all  his  property  to 
Vera  Cathcart,  but  it  was  unsigned. 
His  money,  I  believe,  reverted  to  the 
Crown,  failing  kin.  The  names  of  Sir 
David  Brabazon  and  Keith  Grey  are 
prominent  in  the  correspondence  about 
him.  Some  urgent  business  took  the 
Cathcarts  away  from  Egypt  a  month 
after  the  disappearance.  I  will  not 
write  that  the  wretchedness  of  Vera 
can  be  imagined,  because  grief  like 
hers  is  precisely  what  cannot  be  im- 
agined. She  did  not  fall  into  a  fever  or 
suffer  any  injury  to  the  brain,  only  the 
wearying  disappointment — the  daily 
hope,  and  the  daily  baffling  of  that 
hope — ate  away  her  power  of  feeling 
happiness,  and  at  last  she  learned  the 
lesson  80  many  have  to  learn  from  the 
stern  schooling  of  trial  (but  few  from  a 
stroke  so  ghastly  and  sharp  as  hers) 
that  ''existence  could  be  cherished, 
strengthened  and  fed  without  the  aid 
ol  joy." 


She  did  her  daily  duties,  interested 
herself  in  the  interests  of  those  about 
her.  Then  at  last,  when  her  parents 
died,  she  joined  a  nursing  sisterhood, 
and  worked  in  a  London  hospital. 

VI. 

It  was  the  summer  of  1883.  Ismail 
had  reigned  and  been  deposed.  Arabi's 
rebellion  had  been  crushed,  and 
England  was  occupying  Egypt.  She 
had  a  hard  task  to  bring  order  into 
chaos,  and  now  her  reforms  were 
thrown  back  by  a  violent  epidemic  of 
cholera.  Since  Bevil  and  Vera 
plighted  their  troth  to  each  other, 
a  new  Cairo  had  arisen,  and  boule- 
vards and  wide  streets  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  groves  of  palms 
and  sycamores.  But  the  huge  houses 
were  deserted.  The  long  colon- 
nades usually  crowded  with  loungers 
dining,  or  smoking,  or  gambling,  were 
empty.  The  cafes  were  tenantless,  save 
where  a  solitary  waiter  cowered  behind 
his  bar  expecting  not  customers,  but 
grim  Death.  Fires  were  lighted  in 
the  streets,  and  rolled  volumes  of 
smoke  over  the  town.  The  dirge- like 
chants  of  the  native  mourners  hurrying 
their  kinsfolk  to  the  cemeteries  were 
almost  the  only  sounds  audible. 

The  English  had  established  a  hos- 
pital for  wounded  soldiers  shortly  after 
the  war,  and  a  call  had  been  made  for 
experienced  nurses.  Vera  had  an- 
swered the  call,  and  was  now  once 
more  in  Cairo.  She  could  not  account 
for  the  eagerness  with  which  she  read 
the  summons  to  go  out  at  once.  Half 
an  hour  after  seeing  the  appeal,  she 
sent  a  telegram  to  offer  herself  as  a 
candidate,  and  now  a  pale,  grey-haired 
woman,  as  different  from  the  joyous 
girl  of  thirty  years  ago  as  Constance 
is  from  Beatrice,  she  moved  about  the 
little  hospital  which  was  crowded  with 
cholera  patients,  doing  her  duty  accu- 
rately and  sympathetically  from  long 
training,  but  with  a  feeling  of  the 
dreaminess  of  all  the  surroundings  and 
an  expectation  of  being  drawn  ever 
nearer  and  nearer  to  an  end  that  com- 


150 


A  Romance  of  Cairo, 


bined  to  make  her  begin  every  day 
with  a  sort  of  awe.  But  no  weird  im- 
agination had  fashioned,  and  no  night- 
mare vision  foreshown,  any  end  so 
dreadful  as  that  which  came.  Several 
English  doctors  had  arrived  in  Cairo 
to  study  the  epidemic,  and  to  treat  the 
patients.  Their  attention  was  called 
natiu*ally  to  the  general  state  of  sani- 
tary science  or  nescience  in  Egypt,  and 
they  had  full  powers  to  examine  and 
report.  Amongst  these  was  a  certain 
Dr.  Markland,  who  belonged  to  the 
London  hospital  where  Vera  had 
nursed.  He  came  to  see  her  directly 
he  arrived,  and  thinking  she  was  look- 
ing over-worked,  he  told  her  to  come 
at  once  for  a  drive  with  him.  They 
hurried  through  the  deserted  streets, 
baking  in  the  hot  pestilence-laden  air, 
and,  hoping  for  a  taste  of  purer  and 
cooler  breath,  turned  off  towards 
Abbasiyeh. 

They  got  clear  of  the  houses,  and  at 
last  were  fairly  in  the  desert. 

**  Do  you  know  what  that  red  build- 
ing is  ? "  asked  Markland. 

"  No,"  said  Vera.  "  I  have  never 
been  here  before,  but  we  can  ask  that 
gentleman.  He  is  an  army-chaplain, 
just  come  from  burying  some  poor 
fellow  in  the  desert." 

They  stopped  the  clergyman,  and 
learned  that  the  building  was  an 
Arab  lunatic  asylum. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  said  Mark- 
land.    "  We  will  try  and  get  in.'* 

They  drove  up  to  the  gate  which  was 
shut  but  not  barred.  The  porter 
refused  admission  at  first,  but  gave 
way  when  he  saw  Markland  meant  to 
get  in.  Then  it  turned  out  that  there 
were  at  that  moment  an  English 
doctor  and  a  high  official  compelling 
the  place  to  disclose  its  secrets.  They 
met  Markland  and  the  sister  in  the 
first  corridor. 

"Markland,  thank  God  you  have 
come  I  Sir  Charles  and  I  have 
just  found  something  which  seems  too 
ghastly  to  be  true.  This  place  is 
hell." 

And  it  was.  In  another  moment 
they  heard  from   above  yells,  shrieks, 


and  laughter,  and  pushing  aside  a  few 
quaking  warders   went   up  stairs   and 
entered    the    largest    of    the    wards. 
There  were  lines   of  half-naked   men 
sitting  on  their  bedsteads,  some  chained, 
all  filthy,  diseased,   and   half-starved. 
The   stench   was    loathsome,   the    air 
fetid.     The   doctor    inquired  through 
an  Arab  interpreter  who  had  accr:ji- 
panied  Sir  Charles  some  particulars  of 
the  cases,  but  little  was  known.     The 
patients  had  all  been  brought  into  the 
palace  five  years  ago  from  an  asylum 
at  Bulak   now   disused.     Up  to  that 
time  the  place  had  been  called  the  Grem 
Palace,  and  had  been  occupied    by  a 
royal   princess   who   was    now    dead. 
The  interpreter  spoke  of  her  with  a 
lowered  voice  and  a  look  around  as  if  he 
half  expected  she  would   punish   him 
for  mentioning  her  name.     Sir  Charles 
asked  if  they  saw  all  the  inmates. 
"  No ;  there  was  another  room." 
They  crossed  and  found  opposite  the 
men*s  ward  a  similar  room  containing 
about  forty  women.     Here  again  were 
chains,    nakedness    and    dirt.      Then 
came    a    court-yard    where    the    less 
violent  patients  herded.      A    sheikh, 
repeating  hundreds  of  times  over  one 
verse  from  the  Koran,  sat  in  the  midst 
of  his  circle  of  wondering  worshippers, 
while  a  hideous  swollen-headed  boy  gib- 
bered and  mowed  at  him.     A  deformed 
man  twisted  and  writhed  along  on  the 
ground  fancying  himself  a  snake.     A 
huge  negro  chained  to  a  tree  kept  up 
all  day  a  loud,  monotonous  roar.  Again 
Sir  Charles  asked  if  he  had  seen  all, 
"  Yes  ;  all  but  the  man  beloy." 
"Take  us  to  him." 
They  went  down  to   the   basement 
story  and  passed  through  several  large 
rooms.     Many  of  them  showed  on  the 
walls  patches  of  gold  and  painting,  and 
were    furnished   with   divans  covered 
with  magenta  satin  once  splendid  but 
now  mouldy  and  tattered.     Some  of 
the  palace  furniture  had  been  left  to 
rot  in  the  mad-house.     At  last  they 
reached  a  barred  dungeon-cell.       The 
key  at  first  was  not  to  be  found,  but 
after  much  delay  the  special  warder,  a 
one-eyed  Soudanese,  was  hunted  up  and 


A  Romance  of  Cairo, 


forced  to  unlock  the  door.  The  room 
was  very  high,  lighted  by  a  grated 
aperture  close  to  the  ceiling.  Throdgh 
this  streamed  a  struggling  ray  of  the 
afterglow  which  was  then  suffusing  the 
Red  Mountain  with  a  magic  light. 
The  ray  fell  on  a  man's  face,  very  hag- 
gard and  thin  and  nearly  hidden  by 
an  overgrowth  of  white  beard  and 
moustache.  His  body  was  clothed  in 
a  ragged  silk  dressing-gown,  and  he 
lay  on  a  native  bedstead  of  palm  twigs. 
A  red  leather  cushion  from  one  of  the 
palace  divans  was  placed  under  his 
head.  There  were  staples  and  rings  in 
the  walls  to  which  chains  had  been 
affixed,  and  the  red  marks  of  fetters 
showed  on  his  wrists  and  ankles. 

"  It  is  a  dead  man,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

The  doctors  felt  the  pulse. 

"No  —  not  yet.  Send  for  some 
wine." 

"  I  have  a  flask  with  some  brandy." 

The  sister  had  followed  them  in  and 
approached  the  bed.  She  bent  over  it 
and  put  away  the  long  white  hair  from 
the  features  of  the  prisoner. 

.  "  He  looks  like  an  Englishman,"  said 
Markland. 

A  cry  bitter  with  the  bitterness  of 
the    utmost   suffering  came  from  the 


151 

kneeling  woman, — "  Oh,  my  God  !  my 
God  !     Bevil !     Bevil ! " 

He  lived  for  a  month  tended  by  Vera 
with  passionate  care,  but  he  never  re- 
covered consciousness  nor  ever  re- 
cognised his  faithful  love.  A  pocket- 
book  and  diary  containing  a  few  entries 
were  found  in  the  room.  From  these 
I  have  put  together  the  facts  connected 
with  his  disappearance.  There  were  a 
few  lines  describing  an  interview  with 
the  princess,  from  which  her  motive  in 
having  him  seized  could  be  gathered. 

After  this  discovery  the  huge  ramb- 
ling Gem  Palace  was  thoroughly 
searched,  and  abundant  evidences  of 
strange  deeds  done  and  ghastly  suffer- 
ings endured  were  found  in  its  secret 
cells  and  winding  galleries.  In  a  dis- 
used well  choked  with  brambles  and 
hidden  by  a  hedge  of  prickly  pear  the 
workmen  found  the  bones  of  a  dwarf. 
Idris  had  probably  been  detected  in 
playing  false  to  his  terrible  mistress 
and  had  been  summarily  punished. 

The  last  time  I  was  in  Egypt  I  found 
the  grave  of  Bevil  Brereton  in  the 
beautiful  little  English  cemetery  near 
the  aqueduct  of  Salaheddin  in  Old 
Cairo. 

C.  H.  Butcher. 


152 


LEA.VES  FKOM  A  NOTE-BOOK. 


OF     A     DISCOURSE     IN     WESTMINSTER     ABBEY. 


Nothing,    said    Montaigne,    is     so 
firmly  believed  as  that  which  is  least 
known.  This  whimsy  appears  to  receive 
some  confirmation  from  a  passage  in 
the  speech  delivered  by  Lord  Coleridge 
on  unveiling  the  bust  of  Matthew  Ar- 
nold in  Westminster  Abbey.     It  is,  I 
will  hope,  no  proof  of  brutal  insolence 
to  ask  whether  that  speech  might  not 
have  been  more  apt  to  the  occasion  had 
it   been  something  less  controversial  1 
When  the  friends  and  admirers  of  a 
distinguished  man  are  assembled  to  do 
honour  to  his  memory,  it  surely  seems, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  unnecessary  to 
remind  them  how  bitterly  his  claims 
to  that   honour   have  been   disputed. 
And  surely  it  was  something  more  than 
unnecessary   to   heap   such   scorn    on 
those  who,  while  cordially   admitting 
Arnold's    claims  on    our  grateful  re- 
membrance, have  yet  ventured  to  doubt 
whether  he  was  equally  admirable  in  all 
bhe  many  subjects  on  which  he  exer- 
cised his  delicate  and  delightful  talents. 
In  that  solemn  spot,  *'  that  temple  of 
silence  and  reconciliation,  where  the 
enmities   of    twenty    generations    lie 
buried,"  it  should  have  been  possible  to 
praise  the  dead  sufficiently  without  re- 
viling the  living.     And  after  all  what 
is  their  crime  1     Lord  Coleridge  very 
justly  observed  that  it  is  as  yet  too 
soon  to  pronounce  a  final  judgment  on 
Arnold's  work.     It  is  much  too  soon. 
These  matters  are  not  determined  by  a 
man's  contemporaries.     So  that  what 
his  lordship  had  to  say  on  this  head 
veally  amounted  to  no  more  than  that 
he  did  not  agree  with  those  who  dif- 
fered from  him,  which  might  perhaps 
have  been  assumed. 

In  commenting  on  those  criticisms 
])assed  on  Arnold's  work,  both  during 
liis  lifetime  and  since,  which  appeared 


to  him  "altogether  beside  the  mark," 
— and  beside  the  mark  they  must  in- 
deed be,  if  his  lordship  has  hit  it — 
Lord  Coleridge  named  Jeffrey  as  the 
most  signal  instance  of  the  incapacity 
of  a  bad  critic  to  permanently  injure 
the  fame  of  a  good  writer.  "Lord 
Jeffrey,''  he  said,  "  did  his  best  to 
crush  Wordsworth  ;  he  injured  for  a 
time  the  sale  of  his  poems,  but  he  has 
not  affected  his  fame  in  the  slightest 
degree, — he  has  only  manifested  his 
own  hopeless  incompetence." 

We  have  all  heard  this  sort  of 
thing  many  times  before.  Jeffrey 
has  been  the  common  butt  of  critics 
for  the  last  thirty  years.  Except  Mr. 
Saintsbury  (in  an  article  originally 
contributed  to  this  magazine  and  re- 
published in  Essays  in  English  Literor 
ture),  I  cannot  think  of  any  one  who 
has  ventured  to  say  a  good  word  for 
him  ;  and  I  doubt  whether  even  Mr. 
Saintsbury  has  persuaded  more  than 
a  very  few  to  look  into  the  matter 
for  themselves.  "  All  his  vivacity 
and  accomplishments  avail  him  no- 
thing ;  of  the  true  critic  he  had  in 
an  eminent  degree  no  quality  except 
one — curiosity.  Curiosity  he  had,  but 
he  had  no  organ  for  truth  ;  he  cannot 
illuminate  and  rejoice  us  ;  no  intelli- 
gent outpost  of  the  new  generation 
cares  about  him,  cares  to  put  him  in 
safety  ;  at  this  moment  we  are  all  pass- 
ing over  his  body."  Such  was  Arnold's 
own  verdict,  delivered  more  than,  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago,  and  the  world, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  has  gone  on  passing 
over  the  poor  little  body  ever  since 
till  there  is  hardly  a  fragment  of  it 
left  to  remind  them  what  once  lay  be- 
neath their  feet.  "  For  a  spirit  of 
any  delicacy  and  dignity,*'  cried 
Arnold,    "  what   a   fate   if    he  could 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book. 


153 


foresee  it  1  '  To  be  an  oracle  for  one 
generation,  and  then  of  little  or  no 
account  for  ever."  Well,  it  is  the 
common  lot  of  critics,  however  dig- 
nified and  delicate,  and  by  a  merciful 
dispensation  one  they  do  not  as  a  rule 
foresee.  Nor  perhaps  is  there  any 
good  reason  why  Jeffrey  should  be 
exempted  from  ifc.  Our  criticism  of 
our  contemporaries  cannot  in  reason 
have  much  interest  for  posterity. 
For  the  majority  of  a  man's  con- 
temporaries posterity,  he  may  be  very 
sure,  will  care  nothing,  will  not  even 
care  to  know  anything.  In  this  respect 
Jeffrey  was  indeed  fortunate  above 
most  men.  He  practised  his  business 
in  an  age  distinguished  for  great 
names  above  all  other  ages  in  Eng- 
lish literature  save  one.  Yet  it  mat- 
ters not  to  us  how  Byron  and  Scott, 
Wordsworth  and  Keats,  Shelley  and 
Coleridge  looked  to  Jeffrey  ;  the  mat- 
ter is  how  they  look  to  us.  And 
Jeffrey,  it  must  be  owned,  is  not 
interesting  to  study  for  his  own  sake. 
He  has  not  the  charm  of  an  attractive 
personality  or  an  attractive  style.  It 
has  often  been  said  that  no  writer 
will  live,  whatever  his  other  qualities 
may  be,  who  has  not  a  style  to  keep 
him  sweet ;  it  is  at  least  certain  that 
no  critic  will  live  who  has  it  not. 
Jeffrey  was  far  indeed,  as  Mr.  Saints- 
bury  has  shown,  from  being  the 
narrow,  purblind,  rather  ill-natured 
dullard  that  popular  ignorance  now 
pictures  him ;  but  I  cannot  think 
that  any  other  feeling  than  curiosity 
is  likely  to  be  satisfied  by  disinterring 
his  volumes  from  the  dust  and  silence 
of  the  upper  shelf. 

Yet  if  we  do  not  care  to  study  him 
we  might  at  least  leave  him  alone.  It 
is  surely  hard  even  on  a  man  who  has 
been  in  his  grave  for  the  best  part  of 
fifty  years  to  assert  that  he  has  only 
proved  his  hopeless  incompetence  in 
something  that  we  have  not  been  at 
the  pains  to  read.  It  would  be  natural 
enough  to  find  Lord  Coleridge's  pet 
aversion,  the  irresponsible  reviewer 
tricked  out  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
tripping  in  this  way ;  but  in  a  critic 


and  a  man  of  letters  of  his  lordship's 
acknowledged  position,  we  do  not  ex- 
pect to  find  it.  Yet  it  looks  much  as 
though  we  had  found  it.  No  man  has 
judged  Wordsworth  so  truly  and  finely 
as  Matthew  Arnold,  no  man  has  sent 
so  many  intelligent  and  appreciative 
readers  to  him.  Yet  if  Jeffrey  is  to  be 
blamed  for  the  hopeless  incompetence 
of  his  estimate  of  Wordsworth's  poetry, 
it  is  hard  to  see  how  Arnold  is  to  go 
scot  free.  Any  one  who  cares  to  learn 
what  Jeffrey  really  wrote  of  Words- 
worth, will  be  surprised  to  find  on  how 
many  points  he  is  at  one  with  Arnold. 
The  popular  estimate  of  his  critical 
capacities  is  based,  I  suspect,  on  the 
notion  that  his  famous  phrase.  This 
will  never  do,  was  applied  to  Words- 
worth's poetry  indiscriminately.  But 
the  phrase  was  applied  to  The  Excur- 
sion only,  and  only  to  certain  parts  of 
The  Excursion.  Has  it  not  been 
justified  ?  Much  of  The  Excursion,  too 
much  of  it,  has  never  done  and  never 
will  do.  What  does  Matthew  Arnold 
say  of  it  ]  "  Although  Jeffrey  com- 
pletely failed  to  recognise  Wordsworth's 
real  greatness,  he  was  yet  not  wrong 
in  saying  of  The  Excursion  as  a  work 
of  poetic  style,  *  This  will  never  do.'  " 
What  does  Mr.  John  Morley  say  of  it 
— Mr.  Morley  to  whose  power  of  criti- 
cal biography  Lord  Coleridge  has  paid 
a  graceful  compliment  ?  "  Besides  being 
prolix  Wordsworth  is  often  cumbrous  ; 
has  often  no  flight ;  is  not  liquid,  is 
not  musical.  He  is  heavy  and  self- 
conscious  with  the  burden  of  his  mes- 
sage. .  .  .  He  is  apt  to  wear  a  some- 
what stiff-cut  garment  of  solemnity, 
when  not  solemnity,  but  either  stern- 
ness or  sadness,  which  are  so  different 
things,  would  seem  the  fitter  mood." 
And  these  defects,  Mr.  Morley  adds, 
are  specially  oppressive  in  some  parts 
of  The  Excursion.  True,  Mr.  Morley 
warns  the  student  that  "  not  seldom  in 
these  blocks  of  aflBlicting  prose  suddenly 
we  come  upon  some  of  the  profoundest 
and  most  beautiful  passages  that  the 
poet  ever  wrote."  Jeffrey's  warning 
is  to  the  same  effect,  though  conveyed 
in  the  more  conventional  language  of 


154 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book. 


his  school.  "  Besides  these  more  ex- 
tended passages  of  interest  and  beauty 
which  we  have  quoted  or  omitted  to 
quote,  there  are  scattered  up  and  down 
the  book,  and  in  the  midst  of  its  most 
repulsive  portions  a  very  great  number 
of  single  lines  and  images  that  sparkle 
like  gems  in  the  desert,  and  startle  us 
by  an  intimation  of  the  great  poetic 
powers  that  lie  buried  in  the  rubbish 
that  has  been  heaped  around  them." 

It   is  not  easy  to  be   certain  how 
much    if    any,    injury,   Jeffrey's   cri- 
ticism   did    to    the    sale   of    Words- 
worth's poems ;    but  one  may   doubt 
if  it  could  have  been  so  much  as  the 
injury  Wordsworth  did    them  by  his 
hopeless    inability  to  distinguish    be- 
tween his   good  and   bad   work.     On 
this  inability  Arnold  has  justly  com- 
mented, as  forming  one  of   the  chief 
obstacles  to  the  poet's  fame,  and  his 
own  chief  motive  for  publishing  the 
excellent  little    volume  of    selections 
which     has     probably     gained     more 
readers    for  Wordsworth  in  the  last 
dozen  years  than  he  was  able  to  gain 
for  himself  during  the  whole  of   his 
long  lifetime.    "  The  Excursion  and  The 
Prelude,   his  poems  of  greatest    bulk, 
are  by  no  means  Wordsworth's    best 
work.     His  best  work  is  in  his  shorter 
pieces,  and  many   indeed  are  there  of 
these  which    are   of    first-rate    excel- 
lence.    But  in  his  seven  volumes  the 
pieces  of  high  merit  are  mingled  with 
a  mass  of  pieces  very  inferior  to  them  ; 
so  inferior  to  them  that  it  seems  won- 
derful how  the  same  poet  should  have 
produced  both.  Shakespeare  frequently 
has  lines    and    passages  in    a    strain 
quite  false,  and  which  are  entirely  un- 
worthy of  him.    But   one  can  imagine 
his  smiling,  if  one  could  meet  him  in 
the   Elysian   Fields  and  tell  him  so ; 
smiling  and  replying  that  he  knew  it 
perfectly  well  himself,  and  what  did  it 
matter?     But  with   Wordsworth   the 
case   is   quite   different.      Work  alto- 
gether inferior,  work  quite  uninspired, 
flat  and  dull,  is  produced  by  him  with 
evident  unconsciousness  of  its  defects, 
and  he  presents  it  to  us  with  the  same 
faith  and  seriousness  as  his  best  work. 


Now  a  drama  or  an  epic  fill  the  mind, 
and  one  does  not  look  beyond  them ; 
but  in  a  collection  of  short  pieces  the 
impression  made  by  one  piece  requires 
to  be  continued  and  sustained  by  the 
piece  following.  In  reading  Words- 
worth the  impression  made  by  one  of 
his  fine  pieces  is  too  often  dulled  and 
spoiled  by  a  very  inferior  piece  coming 
after  it."  When  Arnold  writes  in  this 
style  of  Wordsworth, — when  he  talks 
of  the  mass  of  inferior  work,  of  poeti- 
cal baggage  "  imbedding  and  clogging" 
the  first-rate  work,  "obstructing  our 
approach  to  it,  chilling  not  infrequently 
the  high-wrought  mood  with  which  we 
leave  it," — when  he  puts  readers  on 
their  guard  against  that  "  scientific 
system  of  thought  "  which  some  of  the 
poet's  injudicious  admirers  have  praised 
as  his  most  precious  quality,  against 
the  "  tissue  of  elevated  but  abstract 
verbiage"  posing  as  poetry,  but  really 
alien  to  its  very  nature — we  do  not 
say  that  the  critic  has  done  his  best  to 
crush  the  poet.  Why  should  Jeffrey 
be  charged  with  that  intention  when 
we  find  him  writing  to  much  the  same 
effect,  though  in  a  coarser,  a  less  dis- 
criminative vein  ? 

For  it  must  be  owned  that  our 
fathers  did  not  pick  their  terms  so 
daintily  as  we  have  learned  to  do. 
When  they  found  an  offender  they 
thought  that  they  did  well  to  be  angry 
with  him  ;  or  if  they  preferred  to  use 
ridicule  to  him,  they  used  it  often 
somewhat  cumbrously.  Those  were 
rough  days,  when  men  were  handier 
with  the  bludgeon  than  the  rapier. 
But  they  were  not  always  so  far  out  in 
the  objects  of  their  censure  as  it  is 
the  fashion  to  assume.  Lord  Coleridge 
applies  the  term  *'  brutal  insolence  " 
to  the  criticism  of  the  Qvxirterly  Review 
on  Keats  and  on  the  early  poems  of 
Lord  Tennyson.  It  doubtless  contains 
much  that  is  intolerable  to  our 
more  delicate  natures,  and  to  what 
we  are  pleased  to  think  our  finer 
sense  of  justice.  Yet  who  will 
say  that  there  was  not  much  to 
censure  in  both  volumes  ?  One  may 
say  indeed  of  the  critic  (who  is  now 


Leaves  from  a  Note- Booh, 


155 


known  to  have  been  Croker,  and 
believed  on  the  second  occasion  to 
have  been  much  edited  by  Lock- 
hart),  what  Johnson  said  of  Dennis' 
strictures  on  Cato  :  "  His  dislike  was 
not  merely  capricious.  He  found 
and  shewed  many  faults  ;  he  shewed 
them  indeed  with  anger,  but  he 
found  them  with  acuteness."  How 
finely  Keats  could  criticise  himself  we 
know.  Lord  Tennyson  can  answer 
for  himself.  Perhaps  Lord  Cole- 
ridge has  not  read  the  article  on  the 
Poems  of  1832  very  lately.  Should 
he  care  to  refresh  his  memory,  he  may 
be  surprised  to  find  to  what  an  extent 
the  poet  thought  right  to  vindicate  the 
critic.  Many  of  the  pieces  disappeared 
altogether — though  a  few  have  indeed 
been  partially  restored  in  the  latest 
edition  under  the  head  of  Juvenilia. 
Most  of  those  that  were  retained  were 
subjected  to  an  unsparing  revision  ; 
The  Lotos  Eaters  and  The  Miller^ s 
Dav^ghter,  for  instance,  are  hardly 
recognisable  in  their  first  drafts  as  the 
poems  which  are  as  familiar  to  the 
present  generation  of  Englishmen  as 
Marmion  and  The  Giaour  were  familiar 
to  their  fathers.  For  nearly  fifty  years 
the  world  has  known  Lord  Tennyson  for 
a  great  poet ;  but  only  those  who  have 
compared  his  genius  in  its  immaturity 
with  his  genius  in  its  prime  can  appre- 
ciate how  great  he  could  also  be  as  a 
critic, 

I  do  not  of  course  mean  to  say  that, 
apart  from  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
conveyed,  there  is  no  difference  between 
Arnold's  estimate  of  "Wordsworth  and 
Jeffrey's  estimate.  Arnold  praised 
Wordsworth  far  more  cordially  and 
unreservedly  than  Jeffrey  did,  and 
handled  his  faults  far  more  tenderly. 
It  was  in  Arnold's  nature  to  do  so, 
and  in  the  nature  of  the  method  of 
criticism  he  advocated  and  practised. 
I  only  say  that  the  difference  between 
the  two  critics  is  not  on  this  point  so 
great  as  is  commonly  supposed.  "We 
should  remember  too  that  Words- 
worth's poetry  did  not  come  with  the 
shock  of  a  surprise  on  Arnold  as  it 
came  on  Jeffrey.    Arnold  has  rebuked 


certain  unwise  disciples  for  their  in- 
discriminate idolatry,  which  has  re- 
tarded instead  of  advancing  the 
master's  fame.  The  poet,  he  says, 
must  be  recommended  "not  in  the 
spirit  of  a  clique,  but  in  the  spirit  of 
disinterested  lovers  of  poetry."  Yet 
at  the  end  of  it  all  he  is  fain  to  confess 
himself  a  Wordsworthian  with  the 
best  (or  the  worst)  of  them.  "  It 
is  not  for  nothing,"  he  says,  "that 
one  has  been  brought  up  in  the  venera- 
tion of  a  man  so  truly  worthy  of 
homage  ;  that  one  has  seen  and  heard 
him,  lived  in  his  neighbourhood  and 
been  familiar  with  his  country.  No 
Wordsworthian  has  a  tenderer  affec- 
tion for  this  pure  and  sage  master 
than  I,  or  is  less  really  offended  by 
his  defects."  When  censuring  our 
fathers  for  their  blindness  we  are  apt 
to  forget  the  inevitable  difference  be- 
tween their  point  of  view  and  ours. 
They  were 

Like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken. 

They  could  recognise  that  it  was  some- 
thing out  of  their  experience ;  but 
what  it  signified,  or  all  it  signified, 
they  could  not  yet  tell,  as  we  can  tell 
who  have  grown  up  in  its  light,  ex- 
amined it  from  every  side,  and  learned 
its  value  from  a  generation  of  experts. 
Many  worthy  souls,  for  example,  were 
much  startled,  and  even  shocked,  by  a 
judgment  delivered  not  very  long  ago 
by  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England 
on  the  behaviour  of  certain  members 
of  the  Salvation  Army  at  Whitchurch. 
Posterity,  after  having  enjoyed  all  the 
benefits  it  will  by  that  time  have 
conferred  on  mankind,  will  recognise 
that  judgment  at  its  true  value.  But 
will  they  therefore  thunder  at  the 
hopeless  incompetence  of  their  sires 
who,  in  the  first  shock  of  a  revelation 
which  swept  away  at  a  stroke  all  their 
old-fashioned  notions  of  law,  justice, 
and  common-sense,  were  unable  to  re- 
alise the  full  sum  of  its  meaning  for 
suffering  humanity  1  We  may  be  sure 
that  they  will  not. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  older  critics 


15G 


Leaves  from  a  Note- Book, 


were  too  prone  to  look  suspiciously  at 
new  comers,  too  quick  to  condemn 
all  that  they  did  not  at  once  under- 
stand, all  that  was  contrary  to  esta- 
blished law  and  usage.  Brought  up 
in  a  school  of  strict  tradition  they 
were  certainly  not  tolerant  of  change. 
Yet  the  most  tolerant  among  them — 
among  his  own  school,  I  mean,  which 
of  course  did  not  include  Hazlitt  and 
Lamb — was  surely  this  very  man  who 
is  now  resuscitated  for  our  scorn.  He 
was  on  many  points,  as  Mr.  Saintsbury 
has  reminded  us,  a  Romantic,  though  a 
Romantic  doubtless  with  something  of 
the  timidity  which  Johnson  confessed 
to  have  felt  in  his  revolt  against  the 
tyranny  of  the  Dramatic  Unities. 
Almost  alone  among  his  school  he 
dared  to  stand  up  for  Keats ;  he  an- 
ticipated, and  something  more  than 
anticipated,  Arnold  himself  in  dis- 
tinguishing Dry  den  and  Pope  as  classics 
not  of  our  poetry  but  of  "  the  age  of 
prose  and  reason,"  and  hailed  with 
joy  the  herald  of  the  emancipation  in 
Cowper.  Jeffrey,  in  short,  proved,  as 
critics  of  every  age,  most  assuredly 
not  excluding  our  own,  have  proved 
the  truth  of  Arnold's  words,  '*  No  man 
can  trust  himself  to  speak  of  his  own 
time,  and  of  his  own  contemporaries 
with  the  same  sureness  of  judgment 
and  the  same  proportion  as  of  times 
and  men  gone  by."  But  our  fathers' 
errors  are  not  ours.  They  were  too 
prone  to  distrust  what  they  could  not 
at  once  understand ;  we  welcome  it 
with  rapture.  They  were  too  apt  to 
mistake  originality  for  eccentricity ; 
we  mistake  eccentricity  for  originality. 
They  kept  their  eyes  a  little  too  closely 
fixed  on  law  and  custom ;  we  hail  the 
violation  of  all  custom  and  all  law  as 
the  essential  note  of  genius.  On  which 
side  lies  the  greater  error  our  posterity 
shall  determine.  It  was  not  the  least 
of  Matthew  Arnold's  claims  to  accept- 
ance as  a  critic  that  he  for  the  most 
part  kept  such  an  even  course  between 
the  two  extremes.  Goethe  said  that 
no  criticism  was  worth  much  that  was 
not  influenced  by  a  certain  one-sided 
enthusiasm.      Perhaps  ;    but   perhaps 


also  one   had  need  to  be    a    Goethe 
to  go  safely  by  that  rule. 

Like  all  wholesome  natures  Mat- 
thew Arnold  did  not  affect  to  be  in- 
different to  praise,  nor  perhaps  even 
to  a  reasonable  amount  of  flattery  from 
quarters  where  flattery  is  always  privi- 
leged and  pleasant.  But  against  the 
indiscriminate  homage  of  a  clique  his 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  and  his  sense  of 
proportion  equally  warned  him.  He 
warned  others  against  it  in  the  case  of 
writers  whom  he  greatly  and  sincerely 
admired,  Milton,  Goethe,  Byron,  Words- 
worth ;  he  would  assuredly  not  have 
seen  it  applied  to  himself  with  com- 
placency. To  hear  himself  credited  with 
all  the  best  qualities  of  men  so  highly 
and  variously  gifted  as  Horace  and 
Cardinal  Newman,  Thackeray  and  Dr. 
Lightfoot,  Professor  Jowett  and  Mr. 
Morley,  could  never  have  been  to  his 
taste.  But  there  was  one  phrase  applied 
to  him  by  Lord  Coleridge  which  he 
would  not  have  repudiated, — a  striver 
after  Truth,  though  he  would  have 
preferred  to  be  called  a  seeker.  It 
was  his  own  phrase.  "  To  try  and  ap- 
proach Truth  on  one  side  after  another, 
not  to  strive  or  cry,  not  to  persist  in 
pressing  forward  on  any  one  side,  with 
violence  and  self-will," — thus,  and  only 
thus,  was  such  measure  of  Truth  as  is 
ever  vouchsafed  to  mortals,  in  his 
opinion  to  be  won.  This  was  the 
praise  he  gave  to  his  friend  Clough ; 
it  was  the  praise  he  claimed  for  him- 
self : 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine  ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 
This  does  not  come  with  houses  or 
with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  flatter- 
ing crew  ; 
'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought 
and  sold — 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  un- 
tired  ; 
Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone, 
He  wends  unfoUowed,  he  must  house 
alone  ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  in- 
spired. 

"  We  are  all  seekers  still !  *'  he  cried. 


Leaves  froin  a  Note-Booh, 


157 


But  he  was  careful  to  add  :  "  Seekers 
often  make  mistakes/' 

OP   A  LETTER   OF   EECOMMENDATION. 

Emerson  was  one  of  the  kindest  and 
best-tempered  of  men,  but  his  forbear- 
ance is  said  to  have  been  once  sorely 
tried  by  finding  a  letter  he  had  written 
privately  and  in  all  friendship  to 
Thoreau  used  as  an  advertisement  for 
one  of  that  philosopher's  books. 
£merson  had  little  taste  for  the 
peculiar  affectations  which  Thoreau 
chose  to  dignify  by  the  name  of  philo- 
sophy ;  but  he  had  a  generous  sym- 
pathy for  all  forms  of  suffering 
humanity,  and  it  was  this  sympathy 
doubtless  rather  than  his  judgment 
that  had  inspired  his  commendations 
of  Thoreau' s  new  work.  For  a  man  of 
delicacy  and  dignity  the  situation  must 
indeed  have  been  embarrassing. 

One  cannot  but  wonder  whether 
Mr.  Gladstone  does  not  sometimes 
find  himself  in  a  similar  situation,  and 
is  not  equally  embarrassed.  He  writes, 
as  is  well  known,  many  letters,  and  it 
is  hardly  credible  that  all  one  reads 
under  his  hand  was  intended  for  pub- 
lication. The  other  day,  for  instance, 
an  extract  was  printed  in  a  newspaper 
from  a  letter  written  by  him  to  the 
author  of  a  novel :  "I  congratulate 
you,"  it  ran,  "  on  The  Scapegoat  as  a 
work  of  art,  and  especially  upon  the 
noble  and  spiritually  drawn  character 
of  Israel." 

The  author  of  The  Scapegoat  is  Mr. 
Hall  Caine.  The  book,  he  says,  is 
"  less  novel  than  romance,  and  less 
romance  than  poem."  These  distinc- 
tions are  never  so  easy  for  a  reader  to 
draw  as  for  an  author,  who  must  needs 
know  what  he  would  be  at  better  than 
any  one  else.  Speaking  plainly,  the 
book  is  in  two  volumes  and  in  prose, 
was  first  published,  with  pictures,  in 
one  of  our  illustrated  papers,  and  deals 
with  the  condition  of  the  Jews  in  Mo- 
rocco. Mr.  Caine  has  also  written  The 
Bondnum  (which  is  neither  novel,  ro- 
mance, nor  poem,  but  a  saga),  and  The 
Z>Mm«t0r  (which  does  not  appear  to  have 


been  so  accurately  defined).  Both  these 
books  have  been  much  praised,  and  one 
at  least  much  read.  Of  The  Deemster  I 
cannot  find  any  particular  records ; 
but  of  The  Bondrttan  (which  is  now  in 
its  fourth  edition)  the  praise  appears 
to  have  been  unanimous.  A  fly-leaf 
in  TJie  Scapegoat  is  devoted  to  its  pre- 
decessor's glory.  One  critic  finds  its 
leading  characters  of  "colossal  gran- 
deur "  ;  another  opines  its  argument  to 
be  "grand "and  its  power  "almost 
marvellous " ;  a  third  (with  some 
faint  memory  perhaps  of  Mr.  Wops^le's 
famous  interpretation  of  the  character 
of  Hamlet)  sees  "  a  touch  of  almost 
Homeric  power  in  its  massive  and 
grand  simplicity " ;  while  a  fourth, 
outsoaring  all  his  fellows,  boldly  pro- 
claims it  to  be  "  distinctly  ahead 
of  all  the  fictional  literature  of  our 
time,  and  fit  to  rank  with  the  most 
powerful  fictional  writing  of  the 
past  century."  It  is  not  for  me 
to  say  that  this  praise  is  exces- 
sive, who  have  never  read  The  Bond- 
man and  only  a  few  chapters  of  T/ie 
Deemster.  But  with  The  Scapegoat  I 
have  been  more  fortunate. 

General  terms  of  praise,  as  of  blame, 
cannot  easily  be  gainsaid.  A  man  may 
say  he  likes  a  book,  or  dislikes  it,  and 
there  is  an  end  of  it.  But  Mr.  Glad- 
stone has  selected  certain  particular 
qualities  of  The  Scapegoat  for  his  com- 
mendation ;  he  praises  it  as  a  work  of 
art,  and  for  the  noble  and  spiritually 
drawn  character  of  its  hero.  It  is  for 
this  that,  after  reading  the  book,  I 
could  not  but  wonder  whether  Mr. 
Gladstone  had  picked  his  words  quite 
so  carefully  as  he  would  have  done  had 
he  anticipated  the  use  to  which  they 
would  be  put. 

For  in  sober  truth,  sweet,  tender, 
spiritual,  imaginative,  dramatic  as  The 
Scapegoat  may  be  (these  epithets  are 
culled  from  the  effusions  of  another 
and  anonymous  critic),  its  greatness 
as  a  work  of  art  is  not  clearly  manifest 
to  me.  Novel,  romance,  or  poem, 
whatever  it  is  to  be  called,  it  will  be 
read  and  regarded  by  the  general 
public  as  a  story,  a  narrative  of  cei- 


158 


Leaves  frmn  a  Note-Boole, 


tain   events  which  came,    or  may   be 
supposed   to    have    come,   under    the 
narrator's  knowledge  and  in  which  he 
played    a  certain    part.       From    this 
point  of  view  its  construction  appears 
to  me   to   be   somewhat    defective,   T 
would  even  say  clumsy,  might  T  ven- 
ture to  put  such  an  epithet  in  juxta- 
position with  so  many  flattering  ones. 
It  opens  with  an  introduction  wherein 
the  story-teller,  sojourning  in  Tetuan 
at  the  time  of  the  chief  Mahomedan 
festival,   witnesses  the    entry  of    the 
Sultan   into  that  city.      Among    the 
ladies  of  his  Majesty's  harem  is  one, 
not  riding  on  a  mule  as   the    others 
ride,  but  carried  in  a  litter  swung  be- 
tween two  white  Arabian  horses.     An 
opportune  stumble  of  one  of  the  horses 
enables  the  curious  watcher  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  face  of  the  lady  thus 
honoured,  and  it  was  the  face,  as  he 
thought,  of  a  beautiful  English  girl. 
He  is  interested — if  one  dared  to  use 
so  vulgar  a  phrase,  one  would  say  he 
had  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight;  he 
makes    enquiries,  discovers    that   the 
girl    is   not   English   but   a   Moorish 
Jewess,  and  had  just  been  presented 
by  the  governor  of  the  town  to  his 
lord  the  Sultan.     He  is  determined  to 
release  her,  and  he  does  release  her  ; 
moreover  he  marries  her,  takes  her  to 
his  home  in  England,  and   (let  us  all 
hope),  lives  happily  with  her  ever  after. 
But  before  this  sweet  consummation 
can  be  effected,  her  previous  story  and 
the  story  of  her  father  have  to  be  told. 
This  is  done  in  the  form  of  an  inde- 
pendent narrative.     The  reader  is  thus 
carried  backwards  and  forwards,  and 
forwards    and    backwards,   from   one 
stage  of  time  to  another,  and  from  one 
mode  of  narrative  to  another,  till  he 
needs  some  effort  of  memory  to  recall 
at  any  given  moment  exactly  where 
he  is  and   to  whom   he   is  listening. 
And  this  complication  makes  a  sen- 
tence in  the  preface  especially  puzzling. 
Mr.  Caine  apologises  for  the  romantic 
or  poetic  character  of  his  novel  by  the 
preoccupation  of  his  heart  with  "the 
spiritual  love  of  a  noble  man  and  a 
beautiful  woman.''     Who  is  the  noble 


man  ?  If  Israel,  is  the  beautiful 
woman  his  wife  Ruth  or  his  daughter 
Naomi?  If  the  former,  the  occupsr 
tion  of  Mr.  Caine's  heart  must  soon 
have  gone,  for  Ruth  is  dead  at  an 
early  stage  of  the  proceedings.  If  the 
latter,  the  love  of  a  father  for  his 
daughter  should  be  spiritual  no  doubt, 
even  in  Morocco,  yet  even  in  Morocco 
surely  not  so  uncommon  or  distracting 
a  circumstance  as  to  absorb  all  an 
author's  interest  in  his  work.  If  the 
noble  man  be  the  narrator  himself, 
surely  it  is  somewhat  inartistic  to  keep 
the  chief  inspiration  of  a  story  out  of 
sight  during  the  greater  part  of  its 
progress.  Possibly  I  am  wrong — and 
I  recognise  fully  how  much  easier  it 
is  to  dogmatise  about  fiction  than  to 
write  it ;  but,  considered  as  a  work  of 
art,  a  work  requiring  a  regular  con- 
struction and  evolution,  this  method 
of  story-telling  appears  not  entirely 
satisfactory. 

Again,  has  Mr.  Caine  altogether  suc- 
ceeded in  the  design  of  his  book  %  That 
design  appears  to  be — among  other 
things,  of  course,  for  no  man  whatever 
the  grandeur  of  his  conception  and  the 
integrity  of  his  aim,  can  afford  wholly 
to  despise  the  sweet  influences  of  the 
commercial  spirit — to  alleviate  the  con- 
dition of  the  Jews  in  Morocco,  and 
generally  to  stir  up  the  Christian 
Powers  to  see  to  it  that  that  land 
shall  no  longer  be  "a  reproach  to 
Europe,  a  disgrace  to  the  century, 
an  outrage  on  humanity,  a  blight  on 
religion  !  "  There  is  no  disputing  the 
fact  that  in  Mr.  Caine's  Morocco  the 
Jews  are  considerably  harassed  by 
their  Moslem  masters,  and  it  is  at 
least  conceivable  that  they  do  not  fare 
very  much  better  in  the  Morocco  of 
Sultan  Muley  Hassan.  But  surely  he 
had  done  better  to  be  more  careful  to 
enlist  our  sympathies  with  the  objects 
of  his  compassion.  Except  for  the 
girl  Naomi  and  her  mother  Ruth,  there 
seems  uncommonly  little  to  choose  be- 
tween Jew  and  Mahomedan.  The 
rich  Mahomedans  harry  the  Jews,  and 
the  Jews  harry  the  poor  Mahomedans, 
— and  each  other.     It  is  not  impossi- 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, 


159 


ble  that  this  is  so  in  reality  ;  but  the 
question  is  not  one  of  reality,  not  of 
that  truth  to  plain  fact  after  which 
Mr.  Caine  seems  to  have  toiled,  but  of 
art.     If  Abraham  Pigman  (a  curious 
name  for  a  Jew  !),  Judah  ben  Lolo,  and 
Keuben    Malaki    are    typical     repre- 
sentatives of  the  objects  of   Moorish 
tyranny,    then    for    my   poor   part   I 
am    inclined   to   think   that  Pigman, 
Lolo,  and  Malaki  met  with  something 
very  like  their  deserts.     And  what  of 
the  hero,  the  Scapegoat  himself,  Israel 
ben  Oliel,  the  noble   and    spiritually 
drawn      Israel?         Throughout     the 
greater   part  of   the   book   he  is  the 
biggest  rogue  of  them  all.    For  twenty 
years  of  his  life  he  is  the  chief  and  the 
willing  instrument  of  the  Cadi  in  tor- 
menting and  plundering  the  people  of 
his  blood  and  faith,  and  this  he  does  in 
revenge  for  being  robbed  of  his  inherit- 
ance through  the  intrigues  of  his  own 
family.       True     he    repents    at    the 
eleventh  hour,  hoping  thereby  to  win 
the  mercy  of  Heaven  for  his  daughter 
Naomi  who  has  been  deaf,  dumb,  and 
blind  from  her  birth.     He  wins  it,  but 
at  a    terrible  price.       He   loses    the 
favour  of  his  former  employers  with- 
out gaining  the  favour  of  his  former 
victims,  for  Pigman  and  his  kind,  who 
hated  their  oppressor  in  the   day  of 
his  prosperity,  are  not  likely  to  spare 
him  in  the  perilous  time.     Old,  poor, 
persecuted,  reviled,  his  wife  dead,  his 
child  torn  from  him,  Israel  makes  no 
doubt  a  pitiful  figure.     Yet  in  our  pity 
we  cannot  forget  that  after    all   the 
measure  meted  out  to  him  is  but  that 
he  has  measured  to  others.     Nor  is  he 
truly  a  scapegoat ;  he  suffers  not  for 
the  sins   of  others  but  for  his  own. 
Now  in  all  this  Mr.  Caine  has,  I  would 
submit,  committed  an  artistic  blunder. 
That    these    are    the    very    Jews  of 
Morocco  I  do  not  dispute.      I  know 
nothing  of  them,  whereas  Mr.  Caine 
claims  to  liave  seen  and  studied  them  in 
their  own  place.     But  are  these  the 
Jews  for  whom  it  is  safe  to  ask,  to  insist 
upon  our  sympathy,  for  the  author's 
method   is   one  rather   of    insistence 
than  entreaty  ?     Is  Pigman,  is  even 


Israel  himself,  a  figure  likely  to  stir 
the  Christian  heart  of  Europe  to  a 
holy  crusade  against  the  iniquities  of 
Moorish  rule?  Mr.  Caine  has  been 
placed  by  one  of  his  critics  on  a  level 
with  Walter  Scott  at  his  best.  Well, 
Scott  once  tried  his  hand  at  enlisting 
our  sympathy  for  a  Jew  and  his 
daughter,  being  moved  thereto,  as 
Lockhart  tells  us,  by  the  account  given 
to  him  by  his  friend  Skene  of  the 
austerities  with  which  the  race  was  still 
even  in  his  time  treated  in  Germany. 
Scott  knew  nothing  but  what  his 
friend  told  him,  and  what  his  medieval 
reading  had  furnished  him  with.  Yet 
who  has  succeeded  best,  Mr.  Caine  with 
Israel  and  Naomi,  or  Sir  Walter  Scott 
with  Isaac  and  Rebecca  ? 

A  word  as  to  the  style  of  this  book, 
which  has  been  so  highly  praised.  As 
a  reporter  of  the  fact  Mr.  Caine  has 
undoubtedly  conspicuous  merits.  He 
can  describe  a  scene  vividly  ;  he  has, 
as  they  say  of  painters,  an  eye  for 
colour  ;  his  picture  of  the  Sultan's 
entry  into  Tetuan  is  a  very  spirited 
and  graphic  piece  of  work,  and  there 
are  many  other  pictures  throughout  the 
two  volumes  entitled  to  the  same  praise. 
But  he  is  too  fond,  in  a  metaphorical 
sense,  of  using  italics  and  capitals ; 
he  writes  always  at  a  white  heat ;  he 
does  not  sufficiently  distinguish  be- 
tween what  is  essential  and  what  is  only 
accidental.  The  eye  for  colour  and 
fact,  the  power  of  description  and 
narrative,  avail  nothing  without  the 
sense  of  proportion,  without  the  faculty 
of  selecting,  shaping,  controlling. 
With  Mr.  Caine  every  molehill  is  a 
mountain  and  every  shrub  a  forest 
tree.  It  is  the  same  with  his  language. 
He  has  a  rich  and  picturesque  vocabu- 
lary, but  he  is  too  lavish  in  its  use, 
too  fond  of  what  Johnson  has  happily 
called  the  Terrific  Diction.  "  There 
are  men,"  said  the  sage,  "  who  seem 
to  think  nothing  so  much  the  charac- 
teristic of  a  genius  as  to  do  common 
things  in  an  uncommon  manner ;  like 
Hudibras,  to  tell  the  clock  by  algebra  ; 
or  like  the  lady  in  Dr.  Young's  satires, 
to  drink  tea  by  stratagem^     Perhaps 


IGO 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, 


an   even    better   illustration   of    Mr. 
Caine*s  manner  might  be  found  in  a 
famous  criticism  made  not  hy  but  on 
Johnson ;    Mr.    Caine   is   too   apt    to 
make   his    sprats    talk    like    whales. 
"  Strange      things "     are      for      ever 
about     to    happen,    and    when    they 
have    happened  they   are    not    found 
to  be  so  very   strange.      Nothing   is 
more     irritating    to   a     reader    than 
this    habit,    or   more   likely    to    ren- 
der   him  blind    to    an    aiithor^s   real 
powers.     Nothing  can  be  farther  re- 
moved from  the  **  massive  and  grand 
simplicity"  of   the  Homeric  manner. 
Matthew    Arnold    has   described    the 
style  of  one  of  Shelley* s  biographers  as 
too  much  suffused  with  sentiment  and 
poetic  fervour  for  a  prose  writer,  and 
himself  to  have  been  at  times  so  much 
agitated  by  it  as  to  be  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  a  drier  world.     One  feels,  I 
think,   something  of  the  same  agita- 
tion when    borne   along   on   the   full 
torrent  of   Mr.  Caine' s  eloquence.     I 
remember,  when  reading  passages  of 
The    Scapegoat   from    the    illustrated 
paper  in  which  it  was  originally  pub- 
lished, to  have  experienced  much  relief 
in  turning   occasionally  to  the  drier 
world  provided  by  the  other  entertain- 
ments to   be  found  in  such  journals, 
portraits    of    distinguished    athletes, 
professors,    and    politicians,     fashion- 
plates,  chess-problems,  and  so  forth. 

And  this  lack  of  proportion  leads 
Mr.  Caine  into  another  error.  He 
tells  us,  and  we  can  clearly  see,  that 
he  has  been  at  much  labour  to  acquire 
the  correct  "  local  atmosphere  "  of  his 
story,  by  acquainting  himself,  under 
skilled  guidance,  with  the  homes  and 
lives  of  the  Jews  of  Morocco  and  by 
studying  their  ceremonial  law.  Such 
labour  is  highly  meritorious,  and  when 
the  knowledge  thus  won  is  discreetly 


used  it  undoubtedly  adds  much  to  the 
sense  of  reality.  Yet  this  also  can 
prove  a  stone  of  stumbling,  and  such 
it  has  too  often  proved  to  Mr.  Caine. 
When  we  read,  as  we  read  on  almost 
every  page,  of  jellabs  and  ginhri,  of 
kdks  and  zummetta,  of  soldiers  gor- 
geous in  shaaheah  and  aeUiam,  of  the 
balls  of  Charoseth,  the  three  Mitzvoth, 
and  the  day  of  the  night  of  the  Seder, 
we  feel  that  the  local  atmosphere  is 
growing  oppressive  rather  than  lumin- 
ous ;  we  are  reminded  of  that  wise 
ancient  who  objected  to  the  use  of 
strange  words  which  stop  a  reader  as 
a  reef  stops  a  ship,  or,  if  in  a  flippant 
mood,  perhaps  our  memory  strays  to 
the  Eastern  Serenade  of  Bon  Gaultier. 
Mr.  Caine  too  often  forgets  that  he  is 
writing  not  for  the  Jews  of  Morocco 
but  for  the  Christians  of  England. 

Industry,  seriousness,  earnestness  of 
purpose  and  integrity  of  aim  are 
good  things,  and  less  common  perhaps 
than  they  should  be ;  belief  in  one's 
self,  when  not  pushed  too  far,  is  no 
bad  thing.  All  these  qualities  may  be 
cordially  granted  to  Mr.  Hall  Caine. 
But  they  are  not  sufficient  to  make  an 
artist,  though  they  may  be  a  necessary 
complement  to  him.  It  is  not  possible, 
I  think,  to  call  The  Scapegoat  a  work  of 
art,  if  one  attaches  any  serious  meaning 
to  the  phrase.  It  is  hard  perhaps  to 
blame  even  a  real  artist  in  these 
times  for  condescending  to  supplement 
his  native  art  with  the  arts  of  ad- 
vertisement. But  he  will  at  least  be 
expected  to  use  them  artistically,  with 
a  due  sense  of  fitness  and  proportion, 
and  above  all  things  to  remember  the 
eternal  truth  of  the  saying  that  the 
reputation  of  a  book  is  determined 
not  by  what  is  written  about  it  but  by 
what  is  written  in  it. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,  1892. 


DON  ORSINO.^ 


BY    F.   MARION    CRAWFORD. 


CHAPTKR  J. 

Don  Orsino  Saracinesca  is  of  the 
younger  age  and  lives  in  the  younger 
Rome,  with  his  father  and  mother, 
under  the  roof  of  the  vast  old  palace 
which  has  sheltered  so  many  hundreds 
of  Saracinescas  in  peace  and  war,  but 
which  has  rarely  in  the  course  of  the 
centuries  been  the  home  of  three  gen- 
erations at  once  during  one-and-twenty 
years. 

The  lover  of  romance  may  lie  in  the 
sun,  caring  not  for  the  time  of  day  and 
content  to  watch  the  butterflies  that 
cross  his  blue  sky  on  the  way  from  one 
flower  to  another.  But  the  historian 
is  an  entomologist  who  must  be  stir- 
ring. He  must  catch  the  moths,  which 
are  his  facts,  in  the  net  which  is  his 
memory,  and  he  must  fasten  them  upon 
his  paper  with  sharp  pins,  which  are 
dates. 

By  far  the  greater  number  of  old 
Prince  Saracinesca' s  contemporaries 
are  dead,  and  more  or  less  justly  for- 
gotten. Old  Valdarno  died  long  ago 
in  his  bed,  surrounded  by  sons  and 
daughters.  The  famous  dandy  of  other 
days,  the  Duke  of  Astrardente,  died 
at  his  young  wife's  feet  some  three-and- 
twenty  years  before  this  chapter  of 
family  history  opens.  Then  the  prim- 
eval Prince  Montevarchi  came  to  a 
violent  end  at  the  hands  of  his  librar- 
ian, leaving  his  English  princess  con- 
solable  but  unconsoled,  leaving  also  his 
daughter  Flavia  married  to  that  other 

1  Copyright  1891, 

No.  387. — VOL.  Lxv. 


Giovanni  Saracinesca  who  still  bears 
the  name  of  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto  ; 
while  the  younger  girl,  the  fair,  brown- 
eyed  Faustina,  loved  a  poor  Frenchman, 
half  soldier  and  all  artist.  The  weak, 
good-natured  Ascanio  Bellegra  reigns 
in  his  father's  stead,  the  timidly  extra- 
vagant master  of  all  that  wealth  which 
the  miser's  lean  and  crooked  lingers 
had  consigned  to  a  safe  keeping. 
Frangipani  too,  whose  son  was  to  have 
married  Faustina,  is  gone  these  many 
years,  and  others  of  the  older  and 
graver  sort  have  learned  the  great 
secret  from  the  lips  of  death. 

But  there  have  been  other  and 
greater  deaths,  beside  which  the  mor- 
tality of  a  whole  society  of  noblemeu 
sinks  into  insigniBcance.  An  empire 
is  dead  and  another  has  arisen  in  the 
din  of  a  vast  war,  begotten  in  blood- 
shed, brought  forth  in  strife,  bap- 
tised with  fire.  The  France  we  knew 
is  gone,  and  the  French  Republic 
writes  Liberty,  Fraternity,  Equality,  in 
great  red  letters  above  the  gate  of  its 
habitation,  which  within  is  yet  hung 
with  mourning.  Out  of  the  nest  of 
kings  and  princes  and  princelings,  and 
of  all  manner  of  rulers  great  and 
small,  rises  the  solitary  eagle  of  the 
new  German  Empire  and  hangs  on 
black  wings  between  sky  and  earth, 
not  striking  again,  but  always  ready, 
a  vision  of  armed  peace,  a  terror,  a 
problem — perhaps  a  warning. 

Old  Rome  is  dead,  too,  never  to  be 
old  Rome  again.     The  last  breath  has 

l»y  Macmillan  and  Co. 

M 


162 


Don  OrsiTio. 


been  breathed,  the  aged  eyes  are  closed 
for  ever,  corruption  has  done  its  work, 
and  the  grand  skeleton  lies  bleaching 
upon  seven  hills,  half  covered  with  the 
piecemeal  stucco  of  a  modern  archi- 
tectural body.  The  result  is  satisfac- 
tory to  those  who  have  brought  it  about, 
if  not  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  The 
sepulchre  of  old  Rome  is  the  new 
capital  of  united  Italy. 

The  three  chief  actors  are  dead  also 
— the  man  of  heart,  the  man  of  action, 
and  the  man  of  wit,  the  good,  the  brave, 
and  the  cunning,  the  Pope,  the  King, 
and  the  Cardinal — ^Pius  IX.,  Victor 
Emmanuel  II.,  Giacomo  Antonelli. 
Rome  saw  them  all  dead. 

Jn  a  poor  chamber  of  the  Vatican, 
upon  a  simple  bed,  beside  which  burned 
two  waxen  torches  in  the  cold  morning 
light,  lay  the  body  of  the  man  whom 
none  had  loved  and  many  had  feared, 
clothed  in  the  violet  robe  of  the  car- 
dinal deacon.  The  keen  face  was  drawn 
up  on  one  side  with  a  strange  look  of 
n»ingled  pity  and  contempt.  The  deli- 
cate, thin  hands  were  clasped  together 
on  the  breast.  The  chilly  light  fell 
upon  the  dead  features,  the  silken  robe 
and  the  stone  floor.  A  single  servant 
in  a  shabby  livery  stood  in  a  corner, 
smiling  foolishly,  while  the  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes  and  wet  his  unshaven 
cheeks.  Perhaps  he  cared,  as  servants 
will  when  no  one  else  cares.  The  dopr 
opened  almost  directly  upon  a  staircase 
and  the  noise  of  the  feet  of  those  pass- 
ing up  and  down  upon  the  stone  steps 
disturbed  the  silence  in  the  chamber 
of  death.  At  night  the  poor  body 
was  thrust  unhonoured  into  a  common 
coach  and  driven  out  to  its  resting- 
place. 

In  a  vast  hall,  upon  an  enormous 
catafalque,  full  thirty  feet  above  the 
floor,  lay  all  that  was  left  of  the  hon- 
est king.  Thousands  of  wax  candles 
cast  their  light  up  to  the  dark,  shape- 
less face,  and  upon  the  military  accou- 
trements of  the  uniform  in  which  the 
huge  body  was  clothed.  A  great  crowd 
pressed  to  the  railing  to  gaze  their 
lill  and  go  away.  Behind  the  barrier 
tall  troopers  in  cuirasses  mounted  guard 


and  moved  carelessly  about.  It  was 
all  tawdry,  but  tawdry  on  a  magniti- 
cent  scale — all  unlike  the  man  in  whose 
honour  it  was  done.  For  he  had 
been  simple  and  brave.  When  he 
was  at  last  borne  to  his  tomb  in 
the  Pantheon,  a  file  of  imperial  and 
royal  princes  marched  shoulder  to 
shoulder  down  the  street  before  him, 
and  the  black  charger  he  had  loved 
was  led  after  him. 

In  a  dim  chapel  of  St.  Peter's  lay 
the  Pope,  robed  in  white,  the  jewelled 
tiara  upon  his  head,  his  white  face  calm 
and  peaceful.  Six  torches  buined 
beside  him  ;  six  nobles  of  the  guard 
stood  like  statues  with  drawn  swords, 
three  on  his  right  hand  and  three  on 
his  left.  That  was  all.  The  crowd 
passed  in  single  file  before  the  great 
closed  gates  of  the  Julian  Chapel. 
At  night  he  was  borne  reverently 
by  loving  hands  to  the  deep  crypt 
below.  But  at  another  time,  at  night 
also,  the  dead  man  was  taken  up  and 
driven  towards  the  gate  to  be  buried 
without  the  walls.  Then  a  great  crowd 
assembled  in  the  darkness  and  fell 
upon  the  little  band  and  stoned  the 
coffin  of  him  who  never  harmed  any 
man,  and  screamed  out  curses  and 
blasphemies  till  all  the  city  was  astir 
with  riot.  That  was  the  last  funeral 
hymn. 

Old  Rome  is  gone.  The  narrow 
streets  are  broad  thoroughfares,  the 
Jews'  quarter  is  a  flat  and  dusty  build- 
ing lot,  the  fountain  of  Ponte  Sisto  is 
swept  away,  one  by  one  the  mighty 
pines  of  Villa  Ludovisi  have  fallen 
under  axe  and  saw,  and  a  cheap,  thinly- 
inhabited  quarter  is  built  upon  the  site 
of  the  enchanted  garden.  The  network 
of  by-ways  from  the  Jesuits*  church 
to  the  Sant'  Angelo  bridge  is  ploughed 
up  and  opened  by  the  huge  Corso 
Vittorio  Emmanuele.  Buildings  which 
strangers  used  to  search  for  in  the 
shade,  guide-book  and  map  in  hand,  are 
suddenly  brought  into  the  blaze  of 
light  that  fills  broad  streets  and  sweeps 
across  great  squares.  The  vast  Can- 
celleria  stands  out  nobly  to  the  sun, 
the  curved  front  of  the  Massimo  palace 


Don  Orsino. 


1-63 


exposes  its  black  colonnade  to  sight 
upon  the  greatest  thoroughfare  of  the 
new  city,  the  ancient  Arco  de'  Cenci 
exhibits  its  squalor  in  unshadowed  sun- 
shine, the  Portico  of  Octavia  once  more 
looks  upon  the  river. 

He  who  was  born  and  bred  in  the 
Home  of  twenty  years  ago  cornea  back 
after  long  absence   to  wander  as   a 
stranger  in  streets  he   never   knew, 
among    houses    unfamiliar     to     him, 
amidst    a    population    whose    speech 
sounds  strange  in  his  ears.     He  roams 
the  city  from  the  Lateran  to  the  Tiber, 
from  the  Tiber  to  the  Vatican,  finding 
himself    now  and  then    before    some 
building     once    familiar    in    another 
aspect,   losing  himself  perpetually  in 
unprofitable  wastes  made  more.monot- 
ononis  than  the  sandy  desert  by  the 
modern  builder's  art.     Where  once  he 
lingered  in  old  days  to  glance  at  the 
river,  or  to  dream  of  days  yet  older 
and  long  gone,  scarce  conscious  of  the 
beggar  at  his  elbow,  and  hardly  seeing 
the  half-dozen  workmen  who  laboured 
at  their  trades  almost  in  the  middle 
of  the  public  way — where  all  was  once 
aged  and  silent  and  melancholy  and 
ivHil  of  the  elder  memories — there,  at 
that  very  corner,  he  is   hustled  and 
jostled  by  an  eager  crowd,  thrust  to  the 
wall  by  huge,  grinding,  creaking  carts, 
threatened  with  the  modern  death  by 
the   wheel    of    the   modern  omnibus, 
deafened  by  the  yells  of  the  modern 
newsvendors,     robbed,     very     likely, 
by   the  light  fingers   of  the   modern 
inhabitant. 

And  yet  he  feels  that  Kome  must 
be  Home  still.  He  stands  aloof  and 
gazes  at  the  sight  as  upon  a  play  in 
which  Home  herself  is  the  great  hero- 
ine and  actress.  He  knows  the  woman 
and  he  sees  the  artist  for  the  first  time, 
iiot  recognising  her.  She  is  a  dark- 
ejed,  black-haired,  thoughtful  woman 
when  not  upon  the  stage.  How  should 
he  know  her  in  the  strange  disguise, 
her  head  decked  with  Gretchen's  fair 
tresses,  her  olive  cheek  daubed  with 
pink  and  white  paint,  her  stately  form 
clothed  in  garments  that  would  be  gay 
and  girlish  but  which  are  only  unbecom- 


ing?    He  would    gladly  go  out  and 
wait  by  the  stage-door  until  the  per- 
formance is  over,  to  see  the  real  woman 
pass  him  in  the  dim  light  of  the  street- 
lamps  as  she  enters  her  carriage  and 
becomes   herself  again.     And    so,   in 
the  reality,  he  turns  his  back  upon  the 
crowd  and  strolls    away,  not    caring 
whither  he  goes  until,  by  a  mere  ac- 
cident, he  finds  himself  upon  the  height 
of  Sant'  Onofrio,  or  standing  before 
the  great  fountains  of  the  Acqua  Paola, 
or  perhaps  upon  the  drive  which  leads 
through  the  old  Villa  Corsini  along  the 
crest  of  the  Janiculum.     Then,  indeed, 
the  scene  thus  changes,  the  actress  is 
gone  and  the  woman  is  before  him  ; 
the  capital  of  modern  Italy  sinks  like 
a  vision  into  the  earth  out  of  which  it 
was  called  up,  and  the  capital  of  the 
world  rises  once  more,  unchanged,  un- 
changing and  unchangeable,  before  the 
wanderer's  eyes.     The  greater  monu- 
ments of  greater  times  are  there  still, 
majestic  and  unmoved,  the  larger  signs 
of  a  larger  age  stand  out  clear  and 
sharp;   the  tomb  of  Hadrian  frowns 
on  the  yellow  stream,  the  heavy  hemi- 
sphere of  the  Pantheon  turns  its' single 
opening  to  the  sky,  the  enormous  dome 
of  the  world's  cathedral  looks  silently 
down  upon  the  sepulchre  of  the  world's 
masters. 

Then  the  sun  sets  and  the  wanderer 
goes  down  again  through  the  chilly 
evening  air  to  the  city  below,  to  find  it 
less  modern  than  he  had  thought.  He 
has  found  what  he  sought  and  he  knows 
that  the  real  will  outlast  the  false, 
that  the  stone  will  outlive  the  stucco, 
and  that  the  builder  of  to-day  is  but 
a  builder  of  card-houses  beside  the 
architects  who  made  Rome. 
t  So  his  heart  softens  a  little,  or  at 
least  grows  less  resentful,  for  he  has 
realised  how  small  the  change  really  is 
as  compared  with  the  first  effect  pro- 
duced. The  great  house  has  fallen 
into  new  hands  and  the  latest  tenant 
is  furnishing  the  dwelling  to  his  taste. 
That  is  all.  He  will  not  tear  down 
the  walls,  for  his  hands  are  too  feeble 
to  build  them  again,  even  if  he  were 
not  occupied  with  other  matters  and 

M  2 


164 


Don  Orsino, 


hampered  by  the  disagreeable  conscious- 
ness of  the  extravagances  he  has 
abready  committed. 

Other  things  have  been  accomplished, 
some  of  which  may  perhaps  endure, 
and  some  of  which  are  good  in  them- 
selves, while  some  are  indifferent  and 
some  distinctly  bad.  The  great  ex- 
periment of  Italian  unity  is  in  process 
of  trial  and  the  world  is  already  form- 
ing its  opinion  upon  the  results. 
Society,  heedless  as  it  necessarily  is  of 
contemporary  history,  could  not  remain 
indifferent  to  the  transformation  of 
its  accustomed  surroundings  ;  and  here, 
before  entering  upon  an  account  of 
individual  doings,  the  chronicler  may 
be  allowed  to  say  a  few  words  upon  a 
matter  little  understood  by  foreign- 
ers, even  when  they  have  spent 
several  seasons  in  Rome  and  have 
made  acquaintance  with  each  other 
for  the  purpose  of  criticising  the 
Komans. 

Immediately  after  the  taking  of  the 
city,  in  1870,  three  distinct  parties  de- 
clared themselves,  to  wit,  the  Clericals 
or  Blacks,  the  Monarchists  or  Whites, 
and  the  Republicans  or  Reds.  All  three 
had  doubtless  existed  for  a  considerable 
time,  but  the  wine  of  revolution  fa- 
voured the  expression  of  the  truth,  and 
society  awoke  one  morning  to  find  it- 
self divided  into  camps  holding  very 
different  opinions. 

At  first  the  mass  of  the  greater 
nobles  stood  together  for  the  lost  tem- 
poral power  of  the  Pope,  while  a  great 
number  of  the  less  important  families 
followed  two  or  three  great  houses  in 
siding  with  the  Royalists.  The  Re- 
publican idea,  as  was  natural,  found 
but  few  sympathisers  in  the  highest 
(rlass,  and  these  were,  I  believe,  in  all 
cases  young  men  whose  fathers  were 
Blacks  or  Whites,  and  most  of  whom 
have  since  thought  fit  to  modify  their 
opinions  in  one  direction  or  the  other. 
Nevertheless  the  Red  interest  was,  and 
still  is,  tolerably  strong  and  has  been 
destined  to  play  that  powerful  part  in 
parliamentary  life  which  generally 
falls  to  the  lot  of  a  compact  third 
party,   where  a  fourth  does   not   yet 


exist,  or  has  no  political  influence,  as 
is  the  case  in  Rome. 

For  there  is  a  fourth  body  in  Rome, 
which  has  little  political  but  much 
social  importance.  It  was  not  possible 
that  people  who  had  grown  up  together 
in  the  intimacy  of  a  close  caste-life, 
calling  each  other  **  thee  "  and  **  thou  " 
and  forming  the  hereditary  elements 
of  a  still  feudal  organisation,  should 
suddenly  break  off  all  acquaintance 
and  be  strangers  one  to  another.  The 
brother,  a  bom  and  convinced  clerical, 
found  that  his  own  sister  had  followed 
her  husband  to  the  court  of  the  new 
King.  The  rigid  adherent  of  the  old 
order  met  his  own  son  in  the  street, 
arrayed  in  the  garb  of  an  Italian 
officer.  The  two  friends  who  had 
stood  side  by  side  in  good  and  evil  case 
for  a  score  of  years  saw  themselves 
suddenly  divided  by  the  gulf  which  lies 
between  a  Roman  cardinal  and  a 
Senator  of  the  Italian  Kingdom. 
The  breach  was  sudden  and  great,  but 
it  was  bridged  for  many  by  the  inven- 
tion of  a  fourth  proportion.  The 
points  of  contact  between  White  and 
Black  became  Grey,  and  a  social 
power,  politically  neutral  and  consti- 
tutionally indifferent,  arose  as  a  media- 
tor between  the  Contents  and  the 
Malcontents.  There  were  families 
that  had  never  loved  the  old  order  but 
which  distinctly  disliked  the  new,  and 
who  opened  their  doors  to  the  adher- 
ents of  both.  There  is  a  house  which 
has  become  Grey  out  of  a  sort  of 
superstition,  inspired  by  the  unfor- 
tunate circumstances  which  oddly 
coincided  with  each  movement 
of  its  members  to  join  the  new 
order.  There  is  another,  and  one 
of  the  greatest,  in  which  a  very 
high  hereditary  dignity  in  the  one 
party,  still  exercised  by  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, effectually  forbids  the 
expression  of  a  sincere  sympathy  with 
the  opposed  power.  Another  there  is, 
whose  members  are  cousins  of  the  one 
sovereign  and  personal  friends  of  the 
other. 

A  further  means  of  amalgamation 
has  been  found  in  the  existence  of  the 


Don   Orsino. 


163 


double  embassies  of  the  great  powers — 
Austria,  France  and  Spain  each  send 
an  Ambassador  to  the  King  of  Italy 
and  an  Ambassador  to  the  Pope,  of  like 
state  and  importance.  Even  Protes- 
tant Prussia  maintains  a  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  to  the  Holy  See. 
Kussia  has  her  diplomatic  agent  to  the 
Vatican,  and  several  of  the  smaller 
powers  keep  up  two  distinct  legations. 
It  is  naturally  neither  possible  nor 
intended  that  these  diplomatists  should 
never  meet  on  friendly  terms,  though 
they  are  strictly  interdicted  from  issu- 
ing official  invitations  to  each  other. 
Their  point  of  contact  is  another  grey 
square  on  the  chess-board. 

The  foreigner,  too,  is  generally  a 
neutral  individual,  for  if  his  political 
convictions  lean  towards  the  wrong 
side  of  the  Tiber  his  social  tastes 
incline  to  Court  balls  ;  or  if  he  is  an 
admirer  of  Italian  institutions,  his 
curiosity  may  yet  lead  him  to  seek  a 
presentation  at  the  Vatican,  and  his 
inexplicable  though  recent  love  of 
feudal  princedom  may  take  him,  card- 
case  in  hand,  to  that  great  stronghold 
of  Vaticanism  which  lies  due  west  of 
the  Piazza  di  Venezia  and  due  north 
of  the  Capitol. 

During  the  early  years  which 
followed  the  change,  the  attitude  of 
society  in  Rome  was  that  of  protest 
and  indignation  on  the  one  hand,  of 
enthusiasm  and  rather  brutally  ex- 
pressed triumph  on  the  other.  The 
line  was  very  clearly  drawn,  for  the 
adherence  was  of  the  nature  of  per- 
sonal loyalty  on  both  sides.  Eight 
years  and  a  half  later  the  personal 
feeling  disappeared  with  the  almost 
simultaneous  death  of  Pius  IX.  and 
Victor  Emmanuel  II.  From  that  time 
the  great  strife  degenerated  by  degrees 
into  a  difference  of  opinion.  It  may 
perhaps  be  said  also  that  both  parties 
became  aware  of  their  common 
enemy,  the  social  democrat,  soon  after 
the  disappearance  of  the  popular 
King  whose  great  individual  influence 
was  of  more  value  to  the  cause  of  a 
united  monarchy  than  all  the  political 
clubs  and  organisations  in  Italy  put 


together.  He  was  a  strong  man.  He 
only  once,  I  think,  yielded  to  the 
pressure  of  a  popular  excitement, 
namely,  in  the  matter  of  seizing  Rome 
when  the  French  troops  were  with- 
drawn, thereby  violating  a  ratified 
Treaty.  But  his  position  was  a  hard 
one.  He  regretted  the  apparent 
necessity,  and  to  the  day  of  his  death 
he  never  would  sleep  under  the 
roof  of  Pius  IX. 's  palace  on  the 
Quirinal,  but  had  his  private  apart- 
ments in  an  adjoining  building.  He 
was  brave  and  generous.  Such  faults 
as  he  had  were  no  burden  to  the 
nation  and  concerned  himself  alone. 
The  same  praise  may  be  worthily 
bestowed  upon  his  successor,  but  the 
personal  influence  is  no  longer  the 
same,  any  more  than  that  of  Leo  XIII. 
can  be  compared  with  that  of  Pius 
IX.,  though  all  the  world  is  aware 
of  the  present  Pope*s  intellectual 
superiority  and  lofty  moral  principle. 

Let  us  try  to  be  just.  The  unifica- 
tion of  Italy  has  been  the  result 
of  a  noble  conception.  The  execu- 
tion of  the  scheme  has  not  been  without 
faults,  and  some  of  these  faults  have 
brought  about  deplorable,  even  dis- 
astrous, consequences,  such  as  to 
endanger  the  stability  of  the  new 
order.  The  worst  of  these  attendant 
errors  has  been  the  sudden  imposition  of 
a  most  superficial  and  vicious  culture, 
under  the  name  of  enlightenment  and 
education.  The  least  of  the  new 
Government's  mistakes  has  been  a 
squandering  of  the  public  money, 
which,  when  considered  with  reference 
to  the  country's  resources,  has  perhaps 
no  parallel  in  the  history  of  nations. 

Yet  the  first  idea  was  large,  patri- 
otic, even  grand.  The  men  who  first 
steered  the  ship  of  the  state  were 
honourable,  disinterested,  devoted — 
men  like  Minghetti  who  will  not  soon 
be  forgotten — loyal,  conservative  mon- 
archists, whose  thoughts  were  free  from 
exaggeration,  save  that  they  believed 
almost  too  blindly  in  the  power  of  a 
constitution  to  build  up  a  kingdom, 
and  credited  their  fellows  almost  too 
readily  with  a  purpose   as  pure  and 


166 


Don  Orsino. 


blameless  as  their  own.  Can  more  be 
gaid  for  these  1  I  think  not.  They 
rest  in  honourable  graves,  their  doings 
live  in  honoured  remembrance — would 
that  there  had  been  such  another 
generation  to  succeed  them  ! 

And  having  said  thus  much,  let  us 
return  to  the  individuals  who  have 
played  a  part  in  the  history  of  the 
Saracinesca.  They  have  grown  older, 
some  gracefully,  some  under  protest, 
some  most  unbecomingly. 

In   the   end   of    the  year   1887  old 
Leone  Saracinesca  is  still  alive,  being 
eighty-two  years  of  age.     His  massive 
h^td   has  sunk  a   little   between   his 
slightly   rounded   shoulders,    and    his 
white  beard  is  no  longer  cut  short  and 
square,    but   flows   majestically   down 
upon  his  broad   breast.       His  step  is 
slow,  but  firm  still,  and  when  he  looks 
up  suddenly  from  under  his  wrinkled 
lids,  the  fire  is  not  even  yet  all  gone 
from  his  eyes.     He  is  still  contradic- 
tory by  nature,  but  he  has  mellowed 
like   rare  wine  in   the  lon^  years  of 
prosperity    and     peace.       When     the 
change  came  in  Home  he  was  in  the 
mountains,    at    Saracinesca,  with    his 
daughter-in-law,    Corona,      and      her 
children.     His  son  Giovanni,  generally 
known  as  Prince  of  Sanb'  Ilario,  was 
among  the  volunteers  at  the  last  and  sat 
for  half  a  day  upon   his  horse  in  the 
Pincio,    listening  to   the  bullets   that 
gang  over  his  head,  while  his  men  fired 
stray  shots  from  the  parapets  of  the 
public   garden   into   the   road   below. 
Giovanni  is  fifty-two  years   old,    but 
though  his  hair  is  grey  at  the  temples 
acbd    his   figure    a   trifle  sturdier  and 
broader    than    of     old,    he    is    little 
changed.     His   son   Orsino,  who  will 
soon    be   of    age,   overtops  him  by  a 
head   and   shoulders,   a    dark    youth, 
slender  still,  but  strong  and  active,  the 
chief  person   in   this   portion   of    my 
chronicle.       Orsino  has  three  brothers 
of  ranging  ages  of  whom  the  youngest 
is  scarcely  twelve  years  old.     Not  one 
girl  child  has  been  given  to  Giovanni 
and  Corona,  and  they  almost  wish  that 
one  of  the  sturdy  little  lads  had  been 
a     daughter.      But    old     Saracinesca 


laughs  and  shakes  his  head  and  says 
he  will  not  die  till  his  four  grandsons 
are  strong  enough  to  bear  him  to  his 
grave  upon  their  shoulders. 

Corona  is  still  beautiful,  still  dark, 
still     magnificent,     though    she     has 
reached    the    age    beyond    which    no 
woman    ever   goes    until  after  death. 
There  are  few  lines  in  the  noble  ftice, 
and  such  as  are  there  are  not  the  scars 
of  heart-wounds.       Her  life,  too,   has 
been  peaceful  and  undisturbed  by  great 
events  these  many  years.     There   is, 
indeed,  one  perpetual  anxiety  in  her 
existence,  for  the  old  prince  is  an  aged 
man  and  she  loves  him  dearly.     The 
tough  strength  must  give  way  some 
day  and  there  will  be  a  great  mourning 
in  the  house  of  Saracinesca,  nor  will 
any  mourn    the   dead   more  sincerely 
than  Corona.     And  there  is  a  shade  of 
bitterness  in  the  knowledge  that  her 
marvellous    beauty  is   waning.       Can 
she  be  blamed  for  that  1     She  has  been 
beautiful  so  long.      What  woman  who 
has    been   first    for   a    quarter   of    a 
century  can  give  up  her  place  without 
a  sigh?       But  much  has  been  given 
to  her  to  soften  the  years  of  transi- 
tion, and  she  knows  that  also,   when 
she  looks  from  her  husband  to  her  four 
boys. 

Then,  too,  it  seems  more  easy  to 
grow  old  when  she  catches  a  glimpse 
from  time  to  time  of  Donna  TuUia  Del 
Ferice,  who  wears  her  years  ungrace- 
fully, and  who  was  once  so  near  to 
becoming  Giovanni  Saracinesca' s  wife. 
Donna  TuUia  is  fat  and  fiery  of  com- 
plexion, uneasily  vivacious  and  unsui-e 
of  herself.  Her  disagreeable  blue 
eyes  have  not  softened,  nor  has  the 
metallic  tone  of  her  voice  lost  its 
sharpness.  Yet  she  should  not  be  a 
disappointed  woman,  for  Del  Ferice  is 
a  power  in  the  land,  a  member  of 
Parliament,  a  financier  and  a  successful 
schemer,  whose  doors  are  besieged  by 
parasites  and  his  dinner-table  by  those 
who  wear  fine  raiment  and  dwell  in 
kings*  palaces.  Del  Ferice  is  the 
central  figure  in  the  great  building 
syndicates  which  in  1887  are  at  the 
height    of   their   power.     He   juggler 


Don  Orsino, 


167 


with  millions  of  money,  with  miles  of 
real  estate,  with  thousands  of  work- 
men. He  is  director  of  a  bank, 
president  of  a  political  club,  chairman 
of  half-a-dozen  companies,  and  a  deputy 
in  the  Chambers.  But  his  face  is 
unnaturally  pale,  his  body  is  over- 
corpulent,  and  he  has  trouble  with  his 
heart.  The  Del  Ferice  couple  are 
childless,  to  their  own  great  satis- 
faction. 

Anastase  Gouache,  the  great  painter, 
is  also  in  Rome.     Sixteen  years  ago  he 
married  the  love  of  his  life,  Faustina 
Montevarchi,  in    spite  of  the  strong 
opposition  of  her  family.     But  times 
had  changed.     A  new  law  existed  and 
the  thrice  repeated  formal  request  for 
consent    made    by   Faustina    to    her 
mother,     freed     her     from     parental 
authority  and   brotherly  interference. 
She  and  her  husband  passed  through 
some  very  lean  years  in  the  beginning, 
but    fortune    has   smiled   upon    them 
since  that.     Anastase  is  very  famous. 
His     character     has    changed    little. 
With  the  love  of  the  ideal  republic  in 
his  heart,  he  shed  his  blood  at  Mentana 
for  the  great  conservative  principle  ;  he 
fired  his  last  shot  for  the  same  cause  at 
the  Porta   Pia   on   the   twentieth    of 
September  1870 ;    a   month   later   he 
was    fighting   for   France    under   the 
gallant  Chare tte— whether  for  France 
imperial,  regal,  or  republican  he  never 
paused  to  ask ;   he    was   wounded   in 
fighting   against   the   Commune,   and 
decorated  for  painting  the  portrait  of 
•Gambetta,  after  which  he  returned  to 
Rome,  cursed  politics,  and  married  the 
woman  he  loved,  which   was,  on  the 
whole,  the  wisest  course  he  could  have 
followed.     He  has  two  children,  both 
girls,  aged  now  respectively  fifteen  and 
thirteen.     His  virtues  are  many,  but 
they  do  not  include  economy.     Though 
his  savings  are  small  and  he  depends 
upon  his  brush,  he  livas  in  one  wing 
of  an  historic  palace  and  gives  dinners 
which   are  famous.     He   proposes   to 
reform  and  become  a  miser  when  his 
daughters  are  married. 

"  Misery  will  be  the  foundation  of 
my  second  manner,  my  angel,"  he  says 


to  his  wife,  when  he  has  done  something 
unusually  extravagant. 

But  Faustina  laughs  softly  and  winds 
her  arm  about  his  neck  as  they  look 
together  at  the  last  great  picture. 
Anastase  has  not  grown  fat.  The 
gods  love  him  and  have  promised  him 
eternal  youth.  He  can  still  buckle 
round  his  slim  waist  the  military  belt 
of  twenty  years  ago,  and  there  is 
scarcely  one  white  thread  in  his  black 
hair. 

San  Giacinto,  the  other  Saracinesca, 
who   married   Faustina's   elder   sister 
Flavia,  is  in  process  of  making  a  great 
fortune,  greater  perhaps  than  the  one 
so   nearly   thrust    upon    him    by   old 
Montevarchi*s  compact  with  Meschini 
the    librarian    and    forger.     He    had 
scarcely  troubled   himself   to   conceal 
his   opinions    before    the    change    of 
government,  being  by  nature  a  calm, 
fearless  man,  and  under  the  new  order 
he     unhesitatingly     sided     with    the 
Italians,    to  the  great   satisfaction  of 
Flavia,  who  foresaw  years  of  dulness 
for  the  mourning  party  of  the  Blacks. 
He  had  already  brought  to  Rome  the  two 
boys  who  remained  to  him  from  his  first 
marriage  with  Serafina  Baldi — the  little 
girl  who  had  been  born  between  the 
other  two  children  had  died  in  infancy 
— and  the  lads  had  been  educated  at  a 
military  college,  and  in  1887  are  both 
officers  in  the  Italian  cavalry,  sturdy 
and  somewhat   thick-skulled  patriots, 
but  gentlemen  nevertheless  in  spite  of 
the    peasant    blood.      They    are    tall 
fellows  enough  but   neither   of   them 
has    inherited    the    father's     colassal 
stature,  and  San  Giacinto  looks  with  a 
very  little  envy  on  his  young  kinsman 
Orsino,  who  has  outgrown  his  cousins.. 
This  second  marriage  has  brought  him 
issue,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  and  the  fact 
that   he   has    now    four    children    to 
provide  for  has  had  much  to  do  with 
his  activity  in  affairs.     He  was  among 
the   first   to    see    that    an    enormous 
fortune   was  to  be  made  in  the  first 
rush   for   land   in    the    city,   and   he 
realised  all  he  possessed,  and  borrowed 
to  the  full  extent  of  his  credit  to  pay 
the   first   instalments  on  the  land  he 


168 


Don  Orsino. 


bought,  risking  everything  with  the 
calm  determination  and  cool  judgment 
which  lay  at  the  root  of  his  strong 
character.  He  was  immensely  suc- 
cessful, but  though  he  had  been  bold 
to  recklessness  at  the  right  moment, 
he  saw  the  great  crash  looming  in  the 
near  future,  and  when  the  many  were 
frantic  to  buy  and  invest,  no  matter 
at  what  loss,  his  millions  were  in  part 
safely  deposited  in  national  bonds,  and 
in  part  as  securely  invested  in  solid 
and  profitable  buildings  of  which  the 
rents  are  little  liable  to  fluctuation. 
Brought  up  to  know  what  money 
means,  he  is  not  easily  carried  away  by 
enthusiastic  reports.  He  knows  that 
when  the  hour  of  fortune  is  at  hand  no 
price  is  too  great  to  pay  for  ready 
capital,  but  he  understands  that  when 
the  great  rush  for  success  begins  the 
psychological  moment  of  finance  is 
already  passed.  When  he  dies,  if  such 
strength  as  his  can  yield  to  death,  he 
will  die  the  richest  man  in  Italy,  and 
he  will  leave  what  is  rare  in  Italian 
finance,  a  stainless  name. 

Of  one  person  more  I  must  speak, 
who  has  played  a  part  in  this  family 
history.  The  melancholy  Spicca  still 
lives  his  lonely  life  in  the  midst  of  the 
social  world.  He  affects  to  be  a  little 
old-fashioned  in  his  dress.  His  tall 
thin  body  stoops  ominously  and  his 
cadaverous  face  is  more  grave  and 
ascetic  than  ever.  He  is  said  to  have 
been  suffering  from  a  mortal  disease 
these  fifteen  years,  but  still  he  goes 
everywhere,  reads  everything,  and 
knows  every  one.  He  is  between 
sixty  and  seventy  years  old,  but  no  one 
knows  his  precise  age.  The  foils  he 
once  used  so  well  hang  untouched  and 
rusty  above  his  fireplace,  but  his 
reputation  survives  the  lost  strength  of 
his  supple  wrist,  and  there  are  few  in 
Rome,  brave  men  or  harebrained 
youths,  who  would  willingly  anger  him 
even  now.  He  is  still  the  great 
duellist  of  his  day ;  the  emaciated 
fingers  might  still  find  their  old  grip 
upon  a  sword-hilt,  the  long,  listless 
arm  might  perhaps  once  more  shoot 
out  with  lightning  speed,  the  dull  eye 


might  once  again  light  up  at  the  clash 
of  steel.  Peaceable,  charitable  when 
none  are  at  hand  to  see  him  give, 
gravely  gentle  now  in  manner,  Count 
Spicca  is  thought  dangerous  still. 
But  he  is  indeed  very  lonely  in  his  old 
age,  and  if  the  truth  be  told  his 
fortune  seems  to  have  suffered  sadly 
of  late  years,  so  that  he  rarely  leaves 
Home,  even  in  the  hot  summer,  and  it 
is  very  long  since  he  spent  six  weeks 
in  Paris  or  risked  a  handful  of  gold 
at  Monte  Carlo.  Yet  his  life  is  not 
over,  and  he  has  still  a  part  to  play, 
for  his  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of 
another,  as  shall  soon  appear  more 
clearly. 

CHAPTER  11. 

Orsino  Saracinesca^s  education  was 
almost  completed.  It  had  been  of  the 
modern  kind,  for  his  father  had  early 
recognised  that  it  would  be  a  dis- 
advantage to  the  young  man  in  after 
life  if  he  did  not  follow  the  course  of 
study  and  pass  the  examinations 
required  of  every  Italian  subject  who 
wishes  to  hold  office  in  his  own 
countijy.  Accordingly,  though  he  had 
not  been  sent  to  public  schools,  Orsina 
had  been  regularly  entered  since  his 
childhood  for  the  public  examinations 
and  had  passed  them  all  in  due  order, 
with  great  difficulty  and  indifferent 
credit.  After  this  preliminary  work 
he  had  been  at  an  English  University 
for  four  terms,  not  with  any  view  to 
his  obtaining  a  degree  after  completing 
the  necessary  residence,  but  in  order 
that  he  might  perfect  himself  in  the 
English  language,  associate  with 
young  men  of  his  own  age  and  social 
standing,  though  of  different  nation- 
ality, and  acquire  that  final  polish 
which  is  so  highly  valued  in  the 
human  furniture  of  society's  temples. 

Orsino  was  not  more  highly  gifted 
as  to  intelligence  than  many  young 
men  of  his  age  and  class.  Like  many 
of  them  he  spoke  English  admirably, 
French  tolerably,  and  Italian  with  a 
somewhat  Roman  twang.  He  had 
learned  a  little  German  and  was 
rapidly  forgetting  it  again  ;  Latin  and 


Don  Orsino. 


169 


Greek  had  been  exhibited  to  him  as 
dead  languages,  and  he  felt  no  more  in- 
clination to  assist  in  their  resurrection 
than  is  felt  by  most  boys  in  our  day. 
He  had  been  taught  geography  in  the 
practical,  continental  manner,  by  being 
obliged  to  draw  maps  from  memory. 
He  had  been  instructed  in  history,  not 
by  parallels,  but  as  it  were  by  tangents, 
a  method  productive  of  odd  results, 
and  he  had  advanced  just  far  enough 
in  the  study  of  mathematics  to  be 
thoroughly  confused  by  the  terms 
'*  differentiation  *'  and  "  integration. '* 
Besides  these  subjects,  a  multitude  of 
moral  and  natural  sciences  had  been 
made  to  pass  in  a  sort  of  panorama 
before  bis  intellectual  vision,  including 
physics,  chemistry,  logic,  rhetoric, 
ethics  and  political  economy,  with  a 
view  to  cultivating  in  him  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  The  Ministry  of  Public 
Instruction  having  decreed  that  the 
name  of  God  shall  be  forever  elim- 
inated from  all  modern  books  in 
use  in  Italian  schools  and  univer- 
sities, Orsino' s  religious  instruction 
had  been  imparted  at  home  and  had 
at  least  the  advantage  of  being 
homogeneous. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Or- 
sino's  father  and  mother  were  satisfied 
with  this  sort  of  education.  But  it 
was  not  easy  to  foresee  what  social 
and  political  changes  might  come  about 
before  the  boy  reached  mature  man- 
hood. Neither  Giovanni  nor  his  wife 
were  of  the  absolutely  iniransigeant 
way  of  thinking.  They  saw  no  im- 
perative reason  to  prevent  their  sons 
from  joining  at  some  future  time  in 
the  public  life  of  their  country,  though 
they  themselves  preferred  not  to  as- 
sociate with  the  party  at  present  in 
power.  Moreover  Giovanni  Saracin- 
eeca  saw  that  the  abolition  of  primo- 
geniture had  put  an  end  to  hereditary 
idleness,  and  that  although  his  sons 
would  be  rich  enough  to  do  nothing  if 
they  pleased,  yet  his  grandchildren 
would  probably  have  to  choose  be- 
tween work  and  genteel  poverty,  if  it 
pleased  the  fates  to  multiply  the  race. 
He  could  indeed  leave  one-half  of  his 


wealth  intact  to  Orsino,  but  the  law 
required  that  the  other  half  should  be 
equally  divided  among  all ;  and  as  the 
same  thing  would  take  place  in  the 
second  generation,  unless  a  reactionary 
revolution  intervened,  the  property 
would  before  long  be  divided  into  very 
small  moieties  indeed.  For  Giovanni 
had  no  idea  of  imposing  celibacy  upon 
his  younger  sons,  still  less  of  exerting 
any  influence  he  possessed  to  make 
them  enter  the  Church.  He  was  too 
broad  in  his  views  for  that.  Thev 
promised  to  turn  out  as  good  men  in  a 
struggle  as  the  majority  of  those  who 
would  be  opposed  to  them  in  life,  and 
they  should  fight  their  own  battles  un- 
hampered by  parental  authority  or 
caste  prejudice. 

Many  years  earlier  Giovanni  had 
expressed  his  convictions  in  regard  to 
the  change  of  order  then  imminent. 
He  had  said  that  he  would  fight  as 
long  as  there  was  anything  to  fight  for, 
but  that  if  the  change  came  he  would 
make  the  best  of  it.  He  was  now 
keeping  his  word.  He  had  fought  so 
far  as  fighting  had  been  possible,  and 
had  sincerely  wished  that  his  warlike 
career  might  have  offered  more  ex- 
citement and  opportunity  for  personal 
distinction  than  had  been  afforded  him 
in  spending  an  afternoon  on  horse- 
back listening  to  the  singing  of  bullets 
overhead.  His  amateur  soldiering  was 
over  long  ago,  but  he  was  strong,  brave, 
and  intelligent,  and  if  he  had  been 
convinced  that  a  second  and  more 
radical  revolution  could  accomplish 
any  good  result,  he  would  have  been 
capable  of  devoting  himself  to  its 
cause  with  a  single-heartedness  not 
usual  in  these  days.  But  he  was  not 
convinced.  He  therefore  lived  a  quiet 
life,  making  the  best  of  the  present, 
improving  his  lands  and  doing  his 
best  to  bring  up  his  sons  in  such  a 
way  as  to  give  them  a  chance  of  suc- 
cess when  the  struggle  should  come. 
Orsino  was  his  eldest  born  and  the 
results  of  modern  education  became 
apparent  in  him  first,  as  was  inevit- 
able. 

Orsino  was  at  this  time  not  quite 


170 


Don  Orsino, 


twenty-one  years  of  age,  but  the  im- 
portant day  was  not  far  distant,  and 
in  order  to  leave  a  lasting  memorial  of 
the  attaining  of  his  majority  Prince 
Saracinesca  had  decreed  that  Corona 
should  receive  a  portrait  of  her  eldest 
son  executed  by  the  celebrated  Anastase 
Gouache.  To  this  end  the  young  man 
spent  three  mornings  m  every  week  in 
the  artist's  palatial  studio,  a  place 
about  as  different  from  the  latter's  first 
den  in  the  Via  San  Basilio  as  the 
Basilica  of  Saint  Peter  is  different 
from  a  roadside  chapel  in  the  Abruzzi. 
Those  who  have  seen  the  successful 
painter  of  the  nineteenth  century  in 
Ms  glory  will  have  less  difficulty  in 
imagining  the  scene  of  Gouache's 
labours  than  the  writer  finds  in 
describing  it.  The  workroom  is  a  hall, 
the  ceiling  is  a  vault  thirty  feet  high, 
the  pavement  is  of  polished  marble  ; 
the  light  enters  by  north  windows 
which  would  not  look  small  in  a  good- 
sized  church,  the  doors  would  admit  a 
carriage  and  pair,  the  tapestries  upon 
the  walls  would  cover  the  front  of  a 
modern  house.  Everything  is  on  a 
grand  scale,  of  the  best  period,  of  the 
most  genuine  description.  Three  or 
four  originals  of  great  masters,  of 
Titian,  of  Rubens,  of  Van  Dyck, 
stand  on  huge  easels  in  the  most 
favourable  lights.  Some  scores  of 
matchless  antique  fragments,  both  of 
bronze  and  marble,  are  placed  here  and- 
there  upon  superb  carved  tables  and 
shelves  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  only  reproduction  visible  in  the 
place  is  a  very  perfect  cast  of  the 
Hermes  of  Olympia.  The  carpets  are 
all  of  Shiraz,  Sinna,  Gjordez,  or  old 
Baku — no  common  thing  of  Smyrna, 
no  unclean  aniline  production  of  Russo* 
Asiatic  commerce  disturbs  the  uni- 
versal harmony.  In  the  full  light 
upon  the  wall  hangs  a  single  silk  car- 
pet of  wonderful  tints,  famous  in  the 
history  of  Eastern  collections,  and 
upon  it  is  set  at  a  slanting  angle  a 
single  priceless  Damascus  blade — a 
sword  to  possess  which  an  Arab  or  a 
Circassian  would  commit  countless 
crimes.     Anastase  Gouache  is  magni- 


ficent in  all  his  tastes  and  in  all  his 
ways.  His  studio  and  his  dwelling 
are  his  only  estate,  his  only  capital, 
his  only  wealth,  and  he  does  not  take 
the  trouble  to  conceal  the  fact.  The 
very  idea  of  a  fixed  income  is  as  dis- 
tasteful to  him  as  the  possibility  of 
possessing  it  is  distant  and  visionary. 
There  is  always  money  in  abundance, 
money  for  Faustina's  horses  and  car- 
riages, money  for  Gouache's  select 
dinners,  money  for  the  expensive 
fancies  of  both.  Tiie  paint-pot  is  the 
mine,  the  brush  is  the  miner's  pick, 
and  the  vein  has  never  failed,  nor  the 
hand  trembled  in  working  it.  A 
golden  youth,  a  golden  river  flowing 
softly  to  the  red-gold  sunset  of  the 
end— that  is  life  as  it  seems  to 
Anastase  and  Faustina. 

On  the  morning  which  opens  this 
chronicle,  Anastase  was  standing  be- 
fore his  cauvas,  palette  and  brushes  in 
hand,  considering  the  nature  of  the 
human  face  in  general  and  of  young 
Orsino' s  face  in  particular. 

"  I  have  known  your  father  and 
mother  for  centuries,"  observed  the 
painter  with  a  tine  disregard  of  human 
limitations.  "  Yowr  father  is  the 
brown  type  of  a  dark  man,  and  your 
mother  is  the  olive  type  of  a  dark 
woman.  They  are  no  more  alike  than 
a  Red  Indian  and  an  Arab,  but  you 
are  like  both.  A.re  you  brown  or  are 
you  olive,  my  friend]  That  is  the 
question.  I  would  like  to  see  you 
angry,  or  in  love,  or  losing  at  play. 
Those  things  bring  out  the  real  com- 
plexion." 

Orsino  laughed  and  showed  a  re- 
markably solid  set  of  teeth.  But  he 
did  not  find  anything  to  say. 

"  I  would  like  to  know  the  truth 
about  your  complexion,"  said  Anastase, 
meditatively. 

"I  have  no  particular  reason  for 
being  angry,"  answered  Orsino,  "  and 
I  am  not  in  love " 

"  At  your  age  !     Is  it  possible  1 " 

"  Quite.  But  I  will  play  cards  with 
you  if  you  like,"  concluded  the  young 
man. 

"  No,"    returned   the   other.       "It 


Don  Orsino. 


171 


would  be  of  no  use.  You  would  win, 
and  if  you  happened  to  win  much,  I 
should  be  in  a  diabolical  scrape.  But 
I  wish  you  would  fall  in  love.  You 
should  see  how  •!  would  handle  the 
green  shadows  under  your  eyes." 

"  It  is  rather  short  notice." 

"  The  shorter  the  better.  I  used  to 
think  that  the  only  real  happiness  in 
life  lay  in  getting  into  trouble,  and 
the  only  real  interest  in  getting  out." 

"  And  have  you  changed  your 
mind  ? " 

"  I  ?  No.  My  mind  has  changed  me. 
It  is  astonishing  how  a  man  may  love 
his  wife  in  favourable  circumstances." 

Anastase  laid  down  his  brushes 
and  lit  a  cigarette.  Rubens  would 
have  sipped  a  few  drops  of  Rhenish 
from  a  Venetian  glass.  Teniers  would 
have  lit  a  clay  pipe.  Durer  would 
perhaps  have  swallowed  a  pint  of 
Nuremberg  beer,  and  Greuse  or  Mig- 
nard  would  have  resorted  to  their 
snuff-boxes.  We  do  not  know  what 
Michelangelo  or  Perugino  did  in 
the  circumstances,  but  it  is  toler- 
ably evident  that  the  man  of  the 
nineteenth  century  cannot  think  with- 
out talking  and  cannot  talk  without 
cigarettes.  Therefore  Anastase  began 
to  smoke  and  Orsino,  being  young  and 
imitative,  followed  his  example. 

"  You  have  been  an  exceptionally 
fortunate  man,"  remarked  the  latter, 
who  was  not  old  enough  to  be  any- 
thing but  cynical  in  his  views  of  life. 

"  Do  you  think  so  1  Yes — I  have 
been  fortunate.  But  I  do  not  like  to 
think  that  my  happiness  has  been  so 
very  exceptional.  The  world  is  a  good 
place,  full  of  happy  people.  It  must 
be — otherwise  purgatory  and  hell 
would  be  useless  institutions." 

"  You  do  not  suppose  all  people  to 
be  good  as  well  as  happy  then,"  said 
Orsino  with  a  laugh. 

"Good  !  What  is  goodness,  my 
friend  ?  One  half  of  the  theologians 
tell  us  that  we  shall  be  happy  if  we 
are  good,  and  the  other  half  assure  us 
that  the  only  way  to  be  good  is  to 
abjure  earthly  haj)piness.  If  you  will 
believe  me,  you  will  never  commit  the 


supreme  error  of  choosing  between 
the  two  methods.  Take  the  world  as 
it  is  and  do  not  ask  too  many  questions 
of  the  fates.  If  you  are  willing  to  be 
happy,  happiness  will  come  in  its  own 
shape." 

Orsino*  s  young  face  expressed  rather 
contemptuous  amusement.  At  twenty, 
happiness  is  a  dull  word,  and  satis- 
faction spells  excitement. 

"That  is  the  way  people  talk,"  he 
said.  "  You  have  got  everything  by 
fighting  for  it,  and  you  advise  me  to 
sit  still  till  the  fruit  drops  into  my 
mouth." 

"  I  was  obliged  to  fight.  Everything 
comes  to  you  naturally — fortune, 
rank — everything,  including  marriage. 
Why  should  you  lift  a  hand? " 

"A  man  cannot  possibly  be  happy 
who  marries  before  he  is  thirty  years 
old,"  answered  Orsino  with  conviction. 
"  How  do  you  expect  me  to  occupy 
myself  during  the  next  ten  years?  " 

"That  is  true,"  Gouache  replied, 
somewhat  thoughtfully,  as  though  the 
consideration  had  not  struck  him. 

"  If  I  were  an  artist,  it  would  be 
different." 

"Oh,  very  different.  I  agree  with 
you."  Anastase  smiled  good-hu- 
mouredly. 

"  Because  I  should  have  talent — ^and 
a  talent  is  an  occupation  in  itself." 

"I  dare  say  you  would  have  talent," 
Gouache  answered  still  laughing. 

"  No^ — I  did  not  mean  it  in  that 
way — I  mean  that  when  a  man  has  a 
talent  it  makes  him  think  of  something 
besides  himself." 

"  I  fancy  there  is  more  truth  in  that 
remark  than  either  you  or  I  would  at 
first  think,"said  the  painter  in  a  medi- 
tative tone. 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  returned  the 
youthful  philosopher,  with  more  enthu- 
siasm than  he  would  have  cared  to 
show  if  he  had  been  talking  to  a 
woman.  "  What  is  talent  but  a  com- 
bination of  the  desire  to  do  and  the 
power  to  accomplish  1  As  for  genius, 
it  is  never  selfish  when  it  is  at  work." 

"  Is  that  reflection  your  own  ? " 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Orsino  mod- 


172 


Don  Orsino, 


estly.  He  was  secretly  pleased  that  a 
man  of  the  artist's  experience  and 
reputation  should  be  struck  by  his 
remark. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  agree  with  you," 
said  Gouache. 

Orsino's  expression  changed  a  little. 
He  was  disappointed,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"  I  think  that  a  great  genius  is  often 
ruthless.  Do  you  remember  how  Beet- 
hoven congratulated  a  young  composer 
after  the  first  performance  of  his 
opera  ?  *  I  like  your  opera — I  will 
write  music  to  it.'  That  was  a  fine 
instance  of  unselfishness,  was  it  not? 

I  can  see  the  young  man's  face " 

Anastase  smiled. 

"  Beethoven  was  not  at  work  when 
he  made  the  remark,"  observed  Orsino, 
defending  himself. 

"  Nor  am  I,"  said  Gouache,  taking 
up  his  brushes  again.  "If  you  will 
resume  the  pose — so — thoughtful  but 
bold — imagine  that  you  are  already 
an  ancestor  contemplating  posterity 
from  the  height  of  a  nobler  age — you 
understand?  Try  and  look  as  if  you 
were  already  framed  and  hanging  in  the 
Saracinesca  gallery  between  a  Titian 
and  a  Giorgione." 

Orsino  resumed  his  position  and 
scowled  at  Anastase  with  a  good  will. 

^'Not  quite  such  a  terrible  frown, 
perhaps, ' '  suggested  the  latter.  * '  When 
you  do  that,  you  certainly  look  like 
the  gentleman  who  murdered  the 
Colonna  in  a  street  brawl — I  forget 
how  long  ago.  You  have  his  portrait. 
But  I  fancy  the  Princess  would  prefer 
— yes — that  is  more  natural.  You 
have  her  eyes.  How  the  world  raved 
about  her  twenty  years  ago — and  raves 
still,  for  that  matter."  '^ 

"  She  is  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world,"  said  Orsino.  There  was 
something  in  the  boy's  unaffected 
admiration  of  his  mother  which  con- 
trasted pleasantly  with  his  youthful 
affectation  of  cynicism  and  indifference. 
His  handsome  face  lighted  up  a  little, 
and  the  painter  worked  rapidly. 

But  the  expression  was  not  lasting, 
Orsino   was   at    the   age  when    most 


young  men  take  the  trouble  to  cultivate- 
a  manner,  and  the  look  of  somewhat 
contemptuous  gravity  which  he  had 
lately  acquired  was  already  becoming 
habitual.  Since  all  men  in  general 
have  adopted  the  fashion  of  the 
moustache,  youths  who  are  still  waiting 
for  the  full  crop  seem  to  have  diffi- 
culty in  managing  their  mouths- 
Some  draw  in  their  lips  with  that  air 
of  unnatural  sternness  observable  in 
rough  weather  among  passengers  on 
board  ship,  just  before  they  relinquish 
the  struggle  and  retire  from  public  life. 
Others  contract  their  mouths  to  the 
shape  of  a  heart,  while  there  are  yet 
others  who  lose  control  of  the  pendant 
lower  lip  and  are  content  to  look  like 
idiots,  while  expecting  the  hairy 
growth  which  is  to  make  them  look 
like  men.  Orsino  had  chosen  the  least 
objectionable  idiosyncrasy  and  had 
elected  to  be  of  a  stern  countenance. 
When  he  forgot  himself  he  was  sing- 
ularly handsome,  and  Gouache  lay  in 
wait  for  his  moments  of  forgetfulness. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  the 
Frenchman.  "  From  the  classic  point 
of  view  your  mother  was  and  is  the 
most  beautiful  dark  woman  in  the- 
world.  For  myself — well  in  the  first 
place,  you  are  her  son,  and  secondly 
I  am  an  artist  and  not  a  critic.  The 
painter's  tongue  is  his  brush  and  his 
words  are  colours." 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  about 
my  mother?  "  asked  Orsino  with  some- 
curiosity. 

"  Oh — nothing.  Well,  if  you  must 
hear  it,  the  Princess  represents  my 
classical  ideal,  but  not  my  personal 
ideal.     I  have  admired  some  one  else 


more. 

"  Donna  Faustina  ? "  inquired  Orsino. 

"  Ah,  well,  my  friend — she  is  my 
wife,  you  see.  That  always  makes  a 
great  difference  in  the  degree  of  ad- 
miration  " 

"  Generally  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion," Orsino  observed  in  a  tone  of 
elderly  unbelief. 

Gouache  had  just  put  his  brush 
into  his  mouth  and  held  it  between 
his  teeth  as  a  poodle  carries  a  sticky 


Don  Orsino, 


173 


i^rhile  he  used  his  thumb  on  the  canvas. 
The  modern  painter  paints  with  every- 
thing, not  excepting  his  fingers.  He 
glanced  at  his  model  and  then  at  his 
work,  and  got  his  effect  before  he 
answered. 

"  You  are  very  hard  upon  marriage," 
he  said  quietly.    "  Have  you  tried  it  ?  " 

"Not  yet.  I  will  wait  as  long  as 
possible,  before  I  do.  It  is  not  every 
one  who  has  your  luck." 

"  There  was  something  more  than 
luck  in  my  marriage.  We  loved  each 
other,  it  is  true,  but  there  were  diffi- 
culties— you  have  no  idea  what  diffi- 
culties there  were.  But  Faustina  was 
brave  and  I  caught  a  little  courage 
from  her.  Do  you  know  that  when 
the  Serristori  barracks  were  blown  up 
she  ran  out  alone  to  find  me  merely 
because  she  thought  I  might  have  been 
killed?  I  found  her  in  the  ruins, 
praying  for  me.     It  was  sublime." 

"  I  have  heard  that.  She  was  very 
brave " 

"And  I  a  poor  Zouave — and  a 
poorer  painter.  Are  there  such  women 
nowadays  %  Bah  !  I  have  not  known 
them.  We  used  to  meet  at  churches 
and  exchange  two  words  while  her 
maid  was  gone  to  get  her  a  chair. 
Oh,  the  good  old  time  !  And  then  the 
separations — the  taking  of  Rome,  when 
the  old  Princess  carried  all  the  family 
off  to  England  and  stayed  there  while 
we  were  fighting  for  poor  France — and 
the  coming  back  and  the  months  of 
waiting,  and  the  notes  dropped  from 
her  window  at  midnight,  and  the  great 
quarrel  with  her  family  when  we  took 
advantage  of  the  new  law.  And  then 
the  marriage  itself — what  a  scandal  in 
Rome  I  But  for  the  Princess,  your 
mother,  I  do  not  know  what  we  should 
have  done.  She  brought  Faustina  to 
the  church  and  drove  us  to  the  station 
in  her  own  carriage — in  the  face  of 
society.  They  say  that  Ascanio  Belle- 
gra  hung  about  the  door  of  the  church 
while  we  were  being  married,  but  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  come  in  for 
fear  of  his  mother.  We  went  to 
Naples  and  lived  on  salad  and  love — 
and  we  had  very  little  else  for  a  year 


or  two.  I  was  not  much  known, 
then,  except  in  Rome,  and  Roman 
society  refused  to  have  its  portrait 
painted  by  the  adventiu-er  who  had 
run  away  with  a  daughter  of  Casa 
Montevarchi.  Perhaps,  if  we  had 
been  rich,  we  should  have  hated  each 
other  by  this  time.  But  we  had  to 
live  for  each  other  in  those  days,  for 
every  one  was  against  us.  I  painted, 
and  she  kept  house — that  English 
blood  is  always  practical  in  a  desert. 
And  it  was  a  desert.  The  cooking — 
it  would  have  made  a  billiard-bairs 
hair  stand  on  end  with  astonishment. 
She  made  the  salad,  and  then  evolved 
the  roast  from  the  inner  consciousness. 
I  painted  a  chaudfroid  on  an  old  plate. 
It  was  well  done — the  transparent 
quality  of  the  jelly  and  the  delicate 
ortolans  imprisoned  within,  imploring 
dissection.  Well,  must  I  tell  you? 
We  threw  it  away.  It  was  martyr- 
dom. Saint  Anthony's  position  was 
enviable  compared  with  ours.  Beside 
us  that  good  man  would  have  seemed 
but  a  humbug.  Yet  we  lived  through 
it  all.  I  repeat  it.  We  lived,  and  we 
were  happy.  It  is  amazing  how  a 
man  may  love  his  wife." 

Anastase  had  told  his  story  with 
many  pauses,  working  hard  while  he 
spoke,  for  though  he  was  quite  in  ear- 
nest in  all  he  said,  his  chief  object  was 
to  distract  the  young  man's  attention, 
so  as  to  bring  out  his  natural  expres- 
sion. Having  exhausted  one  of  the 
colours  he  needed,  he  drew  back  and 
contemplated  his  work,  Orsino  seemed 
lost  in  thought. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 
asked  the  painter. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  too  old 
to  become  an  artist?"  inquired  the 
young  man. 

"You?  Who  knows?  But  the 
times  are  too  old.  It  is  the  same 
thing." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  You  are  in  love  with  the  life — not 
with  the  profession.  But  the  life  is 
not  the  same  now,  nor  the  art  either.. 
Bah  !  In  a  few  years  I  shall  be  out 
of  fashion.     I  know  it.     Then  we  will 


174 


Don  (h'sino. 


go  back  to  first  principles.  A  garret 
to  live  in,  bread  and  salad  for  dinner. 
Of  course — ^what  do  you  expect  ?  That 
need  not  pl*event  us  from  living  in  a 
palace  so  long  as  we  can." 

Thereupon  Anastase  Gouache  hum- 
med a  very  lively  little  song  as  he 
squeezed  a  few  colours  from  the 
tubes.  Orsino's  face  betrayed  his  dis- 
contentment. 

"  I  was  not  in  earnest,"  he  said. 
*'  At  least,  not  as  to  becoming  an  artist. 
I  only  asked  the  question  to  be  sure 
that  you  would  answer  it  just  as 
everybody  answers  all  questions  of  the 
kind — by  discouraging  my  wish  to  do 
anything  for  myself." 

"  Why  should  you  do  anything  % 
You  are  so  rich  I  " 

"  What  everybody  says  !  Do  you 
know  what  we  rich  men,  or  we  men 
who  are  to  be  rich,  are  expected  to  be  1 
Farmers.     It  is  not  gay." 

"  It  would  be  my  dream — pastoral, 
you  know — Normandy  cows,  a  river 
with  reeds,  perpetual  Angelus,  bread 
and  milk  for  supper.  I  adore  milk. 
A  nymph  here  and  there— at  your  age, 
it  is  permitted.  My  dear  friend,  why 
not  be  a  farmer?  " 

Orsino  laughed  a  little,  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  an  artist's  idea 
of  farming." 

**As  near  the  truth  as  a  farmer's 
idea  of  art,  I  daresay,"  retorted 
Gouache. 

"  We  see  you  paint,  but  you  never 
see  us  at  work.  That  is  the  difference 
— but  that  is  not  the  question.  What- 
ever I  propose,  I  get  the  same  answer. 
I  imagine  you  will  permit  me  to  dislike 
farming  as  a  profession  1 " 

"  For  the  sake  of  argument,  only," 
said  Gouache  gravely. 

"  Good.  For  the  sake  of  argument. 
We  will  suppose  that  I  am  myself  in 
all  respects  what  I  am,  excepting  that  I 
am  never  to  have  any  land,  and  only 
enough  money  to  buy  cigarettes.  I 
say,  *  Let  me  take  a  profession.  Let 
me  be  a  soldier.'  Every  one  rises  up 
and  protests  against  the  idea  of  a 
Saracinesca    serving    in    the    Italian 


army.  Why  1  *  Eemember  that  your 
father  was  a  volunteer  officer  under 
Pope  Pius  IX.'  It  is  comic.  He 
spent  an  afternoon  on  the  Pincio  for 
his  convictions,  and  then  retired  into 
private  life.  *  Let  me  serve  in  a 
foreign  army — France,  Austria,  Bussia, 
I  do  not  care.'  They  are  more  horri- 
fied than  ever.  *  You  have  not  a 
spark  of  patriotism !  To  serve  a 
foreign  power  !  How  dreadful !  And 
as  for  the  Bussians,  they  are  all  here- 
tics. '  *  Perhaps  they  are.  I  will  try 
diplomacy.'  *  What !  Sacrifice  your 
convictions  1  Become  the  blind  instru- 
ment of  a  scheming,  dishonest  minis- 
try ]  It  is  un worth}-  of  a  Saracinesca ! ' 

*  I  will  think  no  more  about  it.  Let  me 
be   a   lawyer    and   enter  public    life.' 

*  A  lawyer  indeed  !  Will  you  wrangle 
in  public  with  notaries'  sons,  defend 
murderers  and  burglars,  and  take  fees 
like  the  old  men  who  write  letters  for 
the  peasants  under  a  green  umbrella 
in  the  street  ]  It  would  be  almost 
better  to  turn  musician  and  give  con- 
certs.' *  The  Church,  perhaps  ? '  I 
suggest.  *  The  Church  ?  Are  you 
not  the  heir,  and  will  you  not  be  the 
head  of  the  family  some  day?  .You 
must  be  mad.'  *  Then  give  me  a  simi 
of  money  and  let  me  try  my  luck  with 
my  cousin  San  Giacinto.'  'Business! 
If  you  make  money  it  is  a  degradation, 
and  with  these  new  laws  you  cannot 
afford  to  lose  it.  Besides,  you  will 
have  enough  of  business  when  you 
have  to  manage  your  estates.'  So  all 
my  questions  are  answered,  and  I  am 
condemned  at  twenty  to  be  a  farmer 
for  my  natural  life.  I  say  so.  *  A 
farmer,  forsooth  !  Have  you  not  the 
world  before  you  ?  Have  you  not  re- 
ceived the  most  liberal  education? 
Are  you  not  rich  ?  How  can  you  take^ 
such  a  narrow  view  !  Come  out  to 
the  Villa  and  look  at  those  young 
thoroughbreds,  and  afterwards  we  will 
drop  in  at  the  club  before  dinner.. 
Then  there  is  that  reception  at  the  old 
Principessa  Bef ana's  to-night,  and  the 
Duchessa  della  Seccatura  is  also  at 
home.'  That  is  my  life,  Monsieur' 
Gouache.  There  you  have  the  question, 


Don  Orsino. 


175 


the  answer  and  the  result.  Admit  that 
it  is  not  gay." 

**  It  is  very  serious,  on  the  contrary," 
answered  Gouache  who  had  listened  to 
the  detached  JTeremiad  with  more  curi- 
osity and  interest  than  he  often 
showed.  "I  see  nothing  for  it,  but 
for  you  to  fall  in  love  without  losing  a 
single  moment." 

Orsino  laughed  a  little  harshly. 

"  I  am  in  the  humour,  I  assure  you," 
he  answered. 

"  Well,  then — what  are  you  wait- 
ing for  %  "  inquired  Gouache,  looking 
at  him. 

**  What  for  ?  For  an  object  for  my 
affections,  of  course.  That  is  rather 
necessary  in  the  circumstances." 

^*  You  may  not  wait  long,  if  you 
will  consent  to  stay  here  another 
quarter  of  an  hour,"  said  Anastase 
with  a  laugh.  "A  lady  is  coming, 
whose  portrait  I  am  painting — an  in- 
teresting woman — tolerably  beautiful 
— rather  mysterious — here  she  is,  you 
can  have  a  good  look  at  her  before  you 
make  up  your  mind." 

Anastase  took  the  half-finished  por- 
trait of  Orsino  from  the  easel  and  put 
another  in  its  place,  considerably  fur- 
ther advanced  in  execution.  Orsino 
lit  a  cigarette  in  order  to  quicken 
liis  judgment,  and  looked  at  the 
canvas.    ' 

The  picture  was  decidedly  striking, 
and  one  felt  at  once  that  it  must  be 
a  good  likeness.  Gouache  was  evid- 
ently proud  of  it.  It  represented  a 
woman,  who  was  certainly  not  yet 
thirty  years  of  age,  in  full  dress,  seated 
in  a  high  carved  chair  against  a  warm 
dark  background.  A  mantle  of  some 
sort  of  heavy  claret-coloured  brocade 
lined  with  fur,  was  draped  across  one 
of  the  beautiful  shoulders,  leaving  the 
other  bare,  the  scant  dress  of  the 
period  scarcely  breaking  the  graceful 
lines  from  the  throat  to  the  soft  white 
hand,  of "  which  the  pointed  fingers 
hung  carelessly  over  the  carved  extre- 
mity of  the  arm  of  the  chair.  The 
lady's  hair  was  auburn,  her  eyes  dis- 
tinctly yellow.  The  face  was  an  un- 
usual one  and  not  without  attraction, 


very  pale,  with  a  full  red  mouth  too- 
wide  for  perfect  beauty,  but  well 
modelled — almost  too  well.  Gouache 
thought.  The  nose  was  of  no  distinct 
type,  and  was  the  least  significant 
feature  in  the  face,  but  the  forehead 
was  broad  and  massive,  the  chin  soft, 
prominent  and  round,  the  brows  much 
arched  and  divided  by  a  vertical  sha- 
dow which,  in  the  original,  might  be 
the  first  indication  of  a  tiny  wrinkle 
Orsino  fancied  that  one  eye  or  the 
other  wandered  a  very  little,  but  he 
could  not  tell  which — the  slight  defect 
made  the  glance  disquieting  and  yet 
attractive.  Altogether  it  was  one  of 
those  faces  which  to  one  man  say  too 
little  and  to  another  too  much. 

Orsino  affected  to  gaze  upon  the 
portrait  with  unconcern,  but  in  reality 
he  was  oddly  fascinated  by  it,  and 
Gouache  did  not  fail  to  see  the  truth. 

^'  You  had  better  go  away,  my 
friend,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  She 
will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes  and  you 
will  certainly  lose  your  heart  if  vou  see 
her." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  "  asked  Or- 
sino, paying  no  attention  to  the  re- 
mark. 

**  Donna  Maria  Consuelo  —  some- 
thing or  other — a  string  of  names  end- 
ing in  Aragona.  I  call  her  Madame 
d'Aragona  for  shortness,  and  she  does 
not  seem  to  object." 

"  Married  ?     And  Spanish  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Gouache. 
"A  widow,  I  believe.  She  is  not 
Italian  and  not  French,  so  she  must  be 
Spanish." 

"The  name  does  not  say  much. 
Many  people  put  *  d*Aragona '  after 
their  names— some  cousins  of  ours, 
among  others  —  they  are  Aranjuez 
d'Aragona — my  father's  mother  was  of 
that  family." 

"  I  think  that  is  the  name — Aran- 
juez. Indeed  I  am  sure  of  it,  for 
Faustina  remarked  that  she  might  be 
related  to  you." 

"  It  is  odd.  We  have  not  heard 
of  her  being  in  Rome — and  I  am 
not  sure  who  she  is.  Has  she  been 
here  long  1 " 


176 


Don  Orsino, 


"  I  have  known  her  a  month — since 
she  first  came  to  my  studio.  She 
lives  in  a  hotel,  and  she  comes  alone, 
except  when  I  need  the  dress  and  then 
she  brings  her  maid,  an  odd  creature 
who  never  speaks  and  seems  to  under- 
stand no  known  language.'* 

"  It  is  an  interesting  face.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  stay  till  she  comes?  We 
may  really  be  cousins,  you  know." 

"By  all  means — you  can  ask  her. 
The  relationship  would  be  with  her 
husband,  I  suppose.'* 

"  True.  I  had  not  thought  of  that ; 
and  he  is  dead,  you  say?  " 

Gouache  did  not  answer,  for  at  that 
moment  the  lady's  footfall  was  heard 
upon  the  marble  floor,  soft,  quick  and 
decided.  She  paused  a  moment  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  when  she  saw  that 
the  artist  was  not  alone.  He  went 
forward  to  meet  her  and  asked  leave 
to  present  Orsino,  with  that  polite  in- 
distinctness which  leaves  to  the  per- 
sons introduced  the  task  of  discovering 
one  another's  names. 

Orsino  looked  into  the  lady's  eyes 
and  saw  that  the  slight  peculiarity  of 
the  glance  was  real  and  not  due  to  any 
error  of  Gouache's  drawing.  He  re- 
cognised each  feature  in  turn  in  the 
one  look  he  gave  at  the  face  before 
he  bowed,  and  he  saw  that  the  portrait^ 
was  indeed  very  good.  He  was  not 
subject  to  shyness. 

"  We  should  be  cousins,  madame," 
he  said.  **  My  father's  mother  was  an 
Aranjuez  d'Aragona." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  the  lady  with  calm 
indifference,  looking  critically  at  the 
picture  of  herself. 

"  I  am  Orsino  Saracinesca,"  said  the 
young  man,  watching  her  with  some 
admiration. 

"  Indeed  ? "  she  repeated,  a  shade  less 
coldly.  "  I  think  I  have  heard  my 
poor  husband  say  that  he  was  connected 
with  your  family.  What  do  you 
think  of  my  portrait  %  Every  one  has 
tried  to  paint  me  and  failed,  but  my 
friend.  Monsieur  Gouache,  is  succeed- 
ing. He  has  reproduced  my  hideous 
nose  and  my  dreadful  mouth  with  a 
masterly    exactness.      No,    my    dear 


Monsieur  Gouache,  it  is  a  compliment 
I  pay  you.  I  am  in  earnest.  I  do 
not  want  a  portrait  of  the  Venus  of 
Milo  with  red  hair,  nor  of  the  Minerva 
Medica  with  yellow  eyes,  nor  of  an 
imaginary  Medea  in  a  fur  cloak.  I 
want  myself,  just  as  I  am.  That  is 
exactly  what  you  are  doing  for  me. 
Myself  and  I  have  lived  so  long  to- 
gether that  I  desire  a  little  memento  of 
the  acquaintance." 

"  You  can  afford  to  speak  lightly  of 
what  is  so  precious  to  others,"  said 
Gouache  gallantly.  Madame  d' Aranjuez 
sank  into  the  carved  chair  Orsino  had 
occupied. 

**This  dear  Gouache — he  is  charm- 
ing, is  he  not  ? "  she  said  with  a  little 
laugh.     Orsino  looked  at  her. 

"Gouache  is  right,"  he  thought, 
with  the  assurance  of  his  years.  "  It 
would  be  amusing  to  fall  in  love  with 
her." 

CHAPTER  III. 

Gouache  was  far  more  interested  in 
his  work  than  in  the  opinions  which 
his  two  visitors  might  entertain  of 
each  other.  He  looked  at  the  lady 
fixedly,  moved  his  easel,  raised  the 
picture  a  few  inches  higher  from  the 
ground  and  looked  again.  Orsino 
watched  the  proceedings  from  a  little 
distance,  debating  whether  he  should 
go  away  or  remain.  Much  depended 
upon  Madame  d'Aragona's  character, 
he  thought,  and  of  this  he  knew 
nothing.  Some  women  are  attracted 
by  indifference,  and  to  go  away  would 
be  to  show  a  disinclination  to  press  the 
acquaintance.  Others,  he  reflected,, 
prefer  the  assurance  of  the  man  who 
always  stays,  even  without  an  invita- 
tion, rather  than  lose  his  chance.  On 
the  other  hand  a  sitting  in  a  studio  is 
not  exactly  like  a  meeting  in  a  draw- 
ing room.  The  painter  has  a  sort 
of  traditional,  exclusive  right  to  his 
sitter's  sole  attention.  The  sitter,  too, 
if  a  woman,  enjoys  the  privilege  of 
sacrificing  one-half  of  her  good  looks 
in  a  bad  light,  to  favour  the  other  side 
which  is  presented  to  the  artist's  view, 
and  the  third  person,  if  there  be  one, 


Don  Orsino. 


177 


has  a  provoking  habit  of  so  placing 
himself  as  to  receive  the  least  flatter- 
ing impression.  Hence  the  great 
unpopularity  of  the  third  person — or 
"the  third  inconvenience,"  as  the 
Romans  call  him. 

Orsino  stood  still  for  a  few  moments, 
wondering  whether  either  of  the  two 
would  ask  him  to  sit  down.  As  they 
did  not,  he  was  annoyed  with  them  and 
determined  to  stay,  if  only  for  ^vq 
minutes.  He  took  up  his  position  in 
a  deep  seat  under  the  high  window, 
and  watched  Madame  d^Aragona's 
profile.  Neither  she  nor  Gouache 
made  any  remark.  Gouache  began 
to  brush  over  the  face  of  his  picture. 
Orsino  felt  that  the  silence  was 
becoming  awkward.  He  began  to 
regret  that  he  had  remained,  for  he 
discovered  from  his  present  position 
that  the  lady*s  nose  was  indeed  her 
defective  feature. 

"You  do  not  mind  my  staying  a 
few  minutes?"  he  said,  with  a  vague 
interrogation. 

"Ask  madame,  rather,'*  answered 
Gouache,  brushing  away  in  a  lively 
manner.  Madame  said  nothing,  and 
seemed  not  to  have  heard. 

"  Am  I  indiscreet  ?  "  asked  Orsino. 

"  How  ?  No.  Why  should  you  not 
remain?  Only,  if  you  please,  sit 
where  I  can  see  you.  Thanks.  I  do 
not  like  to  feel  that  some  one  is 
looking  at  me  and  that  I  cannot  look 
at  him,  if  I  please — and  as  for  me,  I  am 
nailed  in  my  position.  How  can  I  turn 
my  head  ?     Gouache  is  very  severe.'* 

"You  may  have  heard,  madame, 
that  a  beautiful  woman  is  most 
beautiful  in  repose,"  said  Gouache. 

Orsino  was  annoyed,  for  he  had  of 
course  wished  to  make  exactly  the 
same  remark.  But  they  were  talking 
in  French,  and  the  Frenchman  had  the 
advantage  of  speed. 

"  And  how  about  an  ugly  woman  ? " 
asked  Madame  d'Aragona. 

"  Motion  is  most  becoming  to  her — 
rapid  motion — towards  the  door," 
answered  the  artist. 

Orsino  bad  changed  his  position  and 
was  standing  behind  Gouache. 

No.  387. — ^VOL.  Lxv. 


"  I  wish  you  would  sit  down,"  said 
the  latter,  after  a  short  pause.  "  I  do 
not  like  to  feel  that  any  one  is  standing 
behind  me  when  I  am  at  work.  It  is 
a  weakness,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  Do 
you  believe  in  mental  suggestion, 
madame  1" 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Madame 
d'Aragona  vaguely. 

"  I  always  imagine  that  a  person 
standing  behind  me  when  I  am  at 
work  is  making  me  see  everything 
as  he  sees,"  answered  Gouache,  not 
attempting  to  answer  the  question. 

Orsino,  driven  from  pillar  to  post, 
had  again  moved  away. 

"  And  do  you  believe  in  such  absurd 
superstitions  1 "  inquired  Madame 
d'Aragona  with  a  contemptuous  curl 
of  her  heavy  lips.  "  Monsieur  de 
Saracinesca,  will  you  not  sit  down? 
You  make  me  a  little  nervous." 

Gouache  raised  his  finely  marked 
eyebrows  almost  imperceptibly  at  the 
odd  form  of  address,  which  betrayed 
ignorance  either  of  worldly  usage  or 
else  of  Orsino's  individuality.  He 
stepped  back  from  the  canvas  and 
moved  a  chair  forward. 

"  Sit  here.  Prince,"  he  said. 
"Madame  can  see  you,  and  you  will 
not  be  behind  me." 

Orsino  took  the  proffered  seat  with- 
out any  re  j  i  ark.  Madame  d' Aragona's 
expression  did  not  change,  though  she 
was  perfectly  well  aware  that  Gouache 
had  intended  to  correct  her  manner  of 
addressing  the  young  man.  The  latter 
was  slightly  annoyed.  What  difference 
could  it  make?  It  was  tactless  of 
Gouache,  he  thought,  for  the  lady 
might   be  angry. 

"  Are  you  spending  the  winter  in 
Rome,  madame  1 "  he  asked.  He  was 
conscious  that  the  question  lacked 
originality,  but  no  other  presented 
itself   to   him. 

"The  winter?"  repeated  Madame 
dAragona  dreamily.  "Who  knows  1 
I  am  here  at  present,  at  the  mercy  of 
the  great  painter.  That  is  all  I  know 
Shall  I  be  here  next  month,  next 
week?  I  cannot  tell.  I  know  no 
one.     I  have  never  been  here  before. 

N 


178 


Von  Orsino, 


It  is  dull.  This  was  my  object,"  she 
added,  after  a  short  pause.  "  When 
it  is  accomplished  I  will  consider 
other  matters.  I  may  be  obliged  to 
accompany  their  Eoyal  Highnesses  to 
Egypt  in  January.  That  is  next 
month,  is  it  not  ]  " 

It  was  so  very  far  from  clear  who 
the  royal  highnesses  in  question  might 
be,  that  Orsino  glanced  at  Gouache,  to 
see  whether  he  understood.  But 
Gouache  was  imperturbable. 

"  January,  madame,  follows  Decem- 
ber," he  answered.  "The  fact  is 
confirmed  by  the  observations  of 
many  centuries.  Even  in  my  own 
experience  it  has  occurred  forty-seven 
times  in  succession." 

Orsino  laughed  a  little,  and  as 
Madame  d'Aragona^s  eyes  met  his 
the  red  lips  smiled,  without  parting. 

"He  is  always  laughing  at  me,"  she 
said  pleasantly. 

Gouache  was  painting  with  great 
alacrity.  The  smile  was  becoming  to 
her  and  he  caught  it  as  it  passed.  It 
must  be  allowed  that  she  permitted  it 
to  linger,  as  though  she  understood  his 
wish,  but  as  she  was  looking  at  Orsino, 
he  was  pleased. 

"If  you  will  permit  me  to  say  it, 
madame,"  he  observed,  "  I  have  never 
seen  eyes  like  yours." 

He  endeavoured  to  lose  himself  in 
their  depths  as  he  spoke.  Madame 
d'Aragona  was  not  in  the  least 
annoyed  by  the  remark,  nor  by  the 
look. 

"What  is  there  so  very  unusual 
about  my  eyes?"  she  inquired.  The 
smile  grew  a  little  more  faint  and 
thoughtful  but  did  not  disappear. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  have  never 
seen  eyes  of  a  golden-yellow  colour." 

"Tigers  have  yellow  eyes,"  observed 
Madame  d'Aragona. 

"  My  acquaintance  with  that  animal 
is  at  second-hand — slight,  to  say  the 
least." 

"  You  have  never  shot  one  ?  " 

"  Never,  madame.  They  do  not 
abound  in  Rome — nor  even,  I  believe, 
in  Albano.  My  father  killed  one  when 
he  was  a  young  man." 


*'  Prince  Saracinesca  ?  " 

"  Sant'  llario.  My  grandfather  is 
still  alive." 

"  How  splendid  !  I  adore  strong 
races." 

*'It  is  very  interesting,"  observed 
Gouache,  poking  the  stick  of  a  brush 
into  the  eye  of  his  picture.  "  I  have 
painted  three  generations  of  the  family, 
I  who  speak  to  you,  and  I  hope  to 
paint  the  fourth  if  Don  Orsino  here 
can  be  cured  of  his  cynicism  and 
induced  to  marry  Donna — what  is  her 
name  ]  "  He  turned  to  the  young 
man. 

"  She  has  none — and  she  is  likely  to 
remain  nameless,"  answered  Orsino 
gloomily. 

"  We  will  call  her  Donna  Ignota," 
suggested  Madame  d'Aragona. 

"  And  build  altars  to  the  unknown 
love,"  added  Gouache. 

Madame  d'Aragona  smiled  faintly, 
but  Orsino  persisted  in  looking  grave. 

"  It  seems  to  be  an  unpleasant 
subject.  Prince.'* 

"  Very  unpleasant,  madame,"  an- 
swered Orsino  shortly. 

Thereupon  Madame  d'Aragona  looked 
at  Gouache  and  raised  her  brows  a 
little  as  though  to  ask  a  question, 
knowing  perfectly  well  that  Orsino 
was  watching  her.  The  young  man 
could  not  see  the  painter's  eyes,  and 
the  latter  did  not  betray  by  any  ges- 
ture that  he  was  answering  the  silent 
interrogation. 

"  Then  I  have  eyes  like  a  tiger,  you 
say.  You  frighten  me.  How  dis- 
agreeable— to  look  like  a  wild  beast !  " 

"It  is  a  prejudice,"  returned  Orsino. 
"  One  hears  people  say  of  a  woman 
that  she  is  beautiful  as  a  tigress.'* 

"  An  idea  !  "  exclaimed  Gouache, 
interrupting.  "Shall  I  change  the 
damask  cloak  to  a  tiger's  skinT  One 
claw  just  hanging  over  the  white 
shoulder — Omphale,  you  know — in  a 
modern  drawing-room — a  small  cast  of 
the  Farnese  Hercules  upon  a  bracket, 
there,  on  the  right.  Decidedly,  here 
is  an  idea.     Do  you  permit,  madame  %  " 

"  Anything  you  like — only  do  not 
spoil  the  likeness,"  answered  Madame 


Don  Orsino, 


179 


d'Aragona,  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
-and  looking  sleepily  at  Orsino  from 
beneath  her  heavy,  half-closed  lids. 

"You  will  spoil  the  whole  picture," 
said  Orsino,  rather  anxiously. 
Gouache  laughed, 

"  What  harm  if  I  do  ?    I  can  restore 
it  in  five  minutes.*' 
**  Five  minutes  ! " 

"  An  hour,  if  you  insist  upon 
accuracy  of  statement,"  replied  Gouache 
with  a  shade  of  annoyance. 

He  had  an  idea  and,  like  most 
people  whom  fate  occasionally  favours 
with  that  rare  commodity,  he  did  not 
like  to  be  disturbed  in  the  realisation 
of  it.  He  was  already  squeezing  out 
quantities  of  tawny  colours  upon  his 
palette. 

"  I  am  a  passive  instrument,"  said 
Madame  d'Aragona.  "He  does  what 
he  pleases.  These  men  of  genius — 
what  would  you  have?  Yesterday  a 
gown  from  Worth — to-day  a  tiger's  skin 
— indeed,  I  tremble  for  to-morrow." 

She  laughed  a  little  and  turned  her 
head  away. 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  answered 
Gouache,  daubing  in  his  new  idea  with 
an  enormous  brush.  "  Fashions  change, 
— ^woman  endures, — beauty  is  eternal. 
There  is  nothing  which  may  not  be 
made  becoming  to  a  beautiful  woman." 
"My  dear  Gouache,  you  are  in- 
sulPerable.  You  are  always  telling  me 
that  I  am  beautiful.  Look  at  my 
nose." 

**  Yes.  I  am  looking  at  it." 
"  And  my  mouth." 
**  I  look, — I  see, — I  admire.  Have 
you  any  other  personal  observation  to 
m^ke  ?  How  many  claws  has  a  tiger, 
Don  Orsino  ?  Quick !  I  am  painting 
the  thing." 

"  One  less  than  a  woman." 
Madame   d'Aragona   looked   at  the 
young  man  a  moment,  and  broke  into 
a  laugh. 

"There  is  a  charming  speech.  I 
like  that  better  than  Gouache's 
flattery." 

"  And  yet  you  admit  that  the  por- 
trait is  like  you,"  said  Gouache. 
"  Perhaps  I  flatter  you,  too." 


"  Ah !     I  had  not  thought  of  that.' 
"  You  should  be  more  modest." 

"  I  lose  myself " 

"  Where  ? " 

"  In  your  eyes,  madame.  One,  two, 
three,  four — are  you  sure  a  tiger  has 
only  four  claws?  Where  is  the 
creature's  thumb — what  do  you  call 
it  1     It  looks  awkward." 

"  The  dew-claw  ?  "  asked  Orsino. 
"It  is  higher  up,  behind  the  paw. 
You  would  hardly  see  it  in  the  skin." 

"  But  a  cat  has  five  claws,"  said 
Madame  d'Aragona.  "  Is  not  a  tiger 
a  cat  ?  We  must  have  the  thing  right, 
you  know,  if  it  is  to  be  done  at  all." 

"  Has  a  cat  five  claws  ? "  asked 
Anastase,  appealing  anxiously  to 
Orsino. 

"  Of  course,  but  you  would  only  see 
four  on  the  skin." 

"I  insist  upon  knowing,"  said 
Madame  d'Aragona.  "  This  is  dreadful ! 
Has  no  one  got  a  tiger  1  What  sort 
of  studio  is  this — with  no  tiger  ? " 

"  I  am  not  Sarah  Bernhardt,  nor  the 
Emperor  of  Siam,"  observed  Gouache, 
with  a  laugh. 

But  Madame'  d'Aragona  was  not 
satisfied. 

"  I  am  sure  you  could  procure  me 
one.  Prince,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Orsino.  "  I  am  sure  you  could,  if  you 
would  !  I  shall  cry  if  I  do  not  have 
one,  and  it  will  be  your  fault." 

"  Would  you  like  the  animal  alive 
or  dead  ? "  inquired  Orsino  gravely, 
and  he  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Ah,  I  knew  you  could  procure  the 
thing!"  she  exclaimed  with  grateful 
enthusiasm.  "  Alive  or  dead,  Gouache  1 
Quick — decide  !  " 

* "  As  you  please,  madame.  If  you 
decide  to  have  him  alive,  I  will  ask 
permission  to  exchange  a  few  words 
with  my  wife  and  children,  while 
some  one  goes  for  a  priest." 

"  You  are  sublime  to-day.  Dead, 
then,  if  you  please,  Prince.  Quite 
dead — but    do    not    say    that  I   was 

afraid " 

"  Afraid  ?  With  a  Saracinesca  and 
a  Gouache  to  defend  your  life,  madame  ? 
You  are  not  serious." 

V    9 


180 


Don  Orsino, 


Orsino  took  his  hat. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,"  he  said,  as  he  bowed  and  went 
out. 

Madame  d^Aragona  watched  his  tall 
young  figure  till  he  disappeared. 

"  He  does  not  lack  spirit,  your  young 
friend,"  she  observed. 

"  No  member  of  that  family  ever 
did,  I  think,"  Gouache  answered. 
"  They  are  a  remarkable  race." 

"  And  he  is  the  only  son  1 " 

"  Oh,  no  !  He  has  three  younger 
brothers." 

"  Poor  fellow !  I  suppose  the  for- 
tune is  not  very  large." 

"  I  have  no  means  of  knowing," 
replied  Gouache  indifferently.  "Their 
palace  is  historic.  Their  equipages  are 
magnificent.  That  is  all  that  foreigners 
see  of  Roman  families." 

"  But  you  know  them  intimately  1 " 

"Intimately — that  is  saying  too 
much.     I  have  painted  their  portraits." 

Madame  d'Aragona  wondered  why 
he  was  so  reticent,  for  she  knew  that 
he  had  himself  married  the  daughter 
of  a  Roman  prince,  and  she  concluded 
that  he  must  know'  much  of  the 
Romans. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  bring  the 
tiger  ]  "  she  asked  presently. 

"  He  is  quite  capable  of  bringing  a 
whole  menagerie  of  tigers  for  you  to 
choose  from." 

"  How  interesting.     I  like  men  who  ' 
stop   at   nothing.     It  was  really  un- 
pardonable of  you  to  suggest  the  idea 
and  then  to  tell  me  calmly  that  you 
had  no  model  for  it." 

In  the  meantime  Orsino  had  de- 
scended the  stairs  and  was  hailing  a 
passing  cab.  He  debated  for  a  moment 
what  he  should  do.  It  chanced  that 
at  that  time  there  was  actually  a 
collection  of  wild  beasts  to  be  seen  in 
the  Prati  di  Castello,  and  Orsino 
supposed  that  the  owner  might  be 
induced,  for  a  large  consideration,  to 
part  with  one  of  his  tigers.  He  even 
imagined  that  he  might  shoot  the  beast 
and  bring  it  back  in  the  cab.  But,  in 
the  first  place,  he  was  not  provided 
with  an  adequate  sum  of  money,  nor 


did  he  know  exactly  how  to  lay  his 
hand  on  so  large  a  sum  as  might  be 
necessary  at  a  moment's  notice.  He 
was  still  under  age,  and  his  allowance 
had  not  been  calculated  with  a  view  to 
his  buying  menageries.  Moreover  he 
considered  that  even  if  his  pockets  had 
been  full  of  bank  notes,  the  idea  was 
ridiculous,  and  he  was  rather  ashamed 
of  his  youthful  impulse.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  what  was  necessary  for 
the  picture  was  not  the  carcass  of  the 
tiger  but  the  skin,  and  he  remembered 
that  such  a  skin  lay  on  the  floor  in  his 
father's  private  room — the  spoil  of  the 
animal  Giovanni  Saracinesca  had  shot 
in  his  youth.  It  had  been  well  cared 
for  and  was  a  fine  specimen. 

"  Palazzo  Saracinesca,"  he  said  to 
the  cabman. 

Now  it  chanced,  as  such  things  will 
chance  in  the  inscrutable  ways  of  fate, 
that  Sant'  Ilario  was  just  then  in  that 
very  room  and  busy  with  his  corre- 
spondence. Orsino  had  hoped  to  carry 
off  what  he  wanted,  without  being 
questioned,  in  order  to  save  time,  but 
he  now  found  himself  obliged  to  explain 
his  errand. 

Sant'  Ilario  looked  up  in  some 
surprise  as  his  son  entered. 

"  Well,  Orsino  !  Is  anything  the 
matter  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing  serious,  father.  I  want 
to  borrow  your  tiger's  skin  for 
Gouache.     Will  you  lend  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  But  what  in  the 
world  does  Gouache  want  it  for  ?  Is 
he  painting  you  in  skins — the  primeval 
youth  of  the  forest  ? " 

"  No — not  exactly.  The  fact  is, 
there  is  a  lady  there.  Gouache  talks 
of  painting  her  as  a  modern  Omphale, 
with  a  tiger's  skin  and  a  cast  of 
Hercules  in  the  background " 

"  Hercules  wore  a  lion's  skin — not  a 
tiger's.     He  killed  the  Nemean  lion." 

"Did  he?"  inquired  Orsino  in- 
differently. "  It  is  all  the  same — ^they 
do  not  know  it,  and  they  want  a  tiger. 
When  I  left  they  were  debating 
whether  they  wanted  it  alive  or  dead. 
I  thought  of  buying  one  at  the  Prati 
di  Castello,  but  it  seemed  cheaper  to 


Don  Orsino, 


181 


borrow  the  skin  of  you.      May  I  take 

itr' 

Sant'  Ilario  laughed.  Orsino  rolled 
up  the  great  hide  and  carried  it  to  the 
door. 

"  Who  is  the  lady,  my  boy  1 " 

"  I  never  saw  her  before — a  certain 
Donna  Maria  d'Aranjuez  d'Aragona. 
I  fancy  she  must  be  a  kind  of  cousin. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  her  1  ** 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  person. 
Is  that  her  own  name  1 " 

"No — she  seems  to  be  somebody's 
widow." 

"That  is  definite.  What  is  she 
like?" 

"  Passably  handsome — yellow  eyes,* 
reddish  hair,  one  eye  wanders." 

"  What  an  awful  picture  !  Do  not 
fall  in  love  with  her,  Orsino." 

"  No  fear  of  that — but  she  is  amus- 
ing, and  she  wants  the  tiger." 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry," 
observed  Sant'  Ilario,  considerably 
amused. 

**  Naturally.  They  are  waiting  for 
me. 

"  Well,  go  as  fast  as  you  can — never 
keep  a  woman  waiting.  By  the  way, 
bring  the  skin  back.  I  would  rather 
you  bought  twenty  live  tigers  at  the 
Prati  than  lose  that  old  thing." 

Orsino  promised  and  was  soon  in  his 
cab  on  the  way  to  Gouache's  studio, 
having  the  skin  rolled  up  on  his  knees, 
the  head  hanging  out  on  one  side  and 
the  tail  on  the  other,  to  the  infinite 
interest  of  the  people  in  the  street. 
He  was  just  congratulating  himself  on 
having  wasted  so  little  time  in  con- 
versation with  his  father,  when  the 
figure  of  a  tall  woman  walking 
towards  him  on  the  pavement  arrested 
his  attention.  His  cab  must  pass  close 
by  her,  and  there  was  no  mistaking 
Yus  mother  at  a  hundred  yards'  dis- 
tance. She  saw  him  too,  and  made  a 
sign  with  her  parasol  for  him  to  stop. 

"Good-morning,  Orsino,"  said  the 
sweet  deep  voice. 

"  Grood-morning,  mother,"  he  an- 
swered, as  he  descended  hat  in  hand, 
and  kissed  the  gloved  fingers  she 
0xteiided  to  him. 


He  could  not  help  thinking,  as  he 
looked  at  her,  that  she  was  infinitely 
more  beautiful  even  now  than  Madame 
d'Aragona.  As  for  Corona,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  there  was  no  man  on  earth 
to  compare  with  her  eldest  son,  except 
Giovanni  himself,  and  there  all  com- 
parison ceased.  Their  eyes  met  affec- 
tionately and  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  say  which  was  the  more  proud  of 
the  other,  the  son  of  his  mother,  or 
the  mother  of  her  son.  Nevertheless 
Orsino  was  in  a  hurry.  Anticipating 
all  questions  he  told  her  in  as  few 
words  as  possible  the  nature  of  his 
errand,  the  object  of  the  tiger's  skin, 
and  'the  name  of  the  lady  who  was 
sitting  to  Gouache. 


"It  is  strange,"  said  Corona. 


<< 


have  never  heard  your  father  speak  of 
her." 

"  He  has  never  heard  of  her  either. 
He  just  told  me  so." 

"  I  have  almost  enough  curiosity  to 
get  into  your  cab  and  go  with  you." 

"  Do,  mother."  There  was  not  much 
enthusiasm  in  the  answer. 

Corona  looked  at  him,  smiled,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  Foolish  boy  !  Did  you  think  I  was 
in  earnest  1  I  should  only  spoil  your 
amusement  in  the  studio,  and  the  lady 
would  see  that  I  had  come  to  inspect 
her.  Two  good  reasons — but  the  first 
is  the  better,  dear.  Go — do  not  keep 
them  waiting." 

"  Will  you  not  take  my  cab  ]  I  can 
get  another." 

"  No.  I  am  in  no  hurry.  Good- 
bye." 

And  nodding  to  him  with  an  affec- 
tionate smile.  Corona  passed  on, 
leaving  Orsino  free  at  last  to  carry  the 
skin  to  its  destination. 

When  he  entered  the  studio  he 
found  Madame  d'Aragona  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  a  piece  of  old 
tapestry  which  hung  opposite  to  her, 
while  Gouache  was  drawing  in  a  tiny 
Hercules,  high  up  in  the  right  hand 
corner  of  the  picture,  as  he  had  pi'O- 
posed.  The  conversation  seemed  to 
have  languished,  and  Orsino  was 
immediately  conscious  that  the  atmo- 


182 


Don  Ormw, 


sphere  had  changed  since  he  had  left. 
He  unrolled  the  skin  as  he  entered, 
and  Madame  d'Aiagona  looked  at  it 
critically.  She  saw  that  the  tawny 
colours  would  become  her  in  the  por- 
trait and  her  expression  grew  more 
animated. 

"  It  is  really  very  good  of  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  grateful  glance. 

*'  I  have  a  disappointment  in  store  for 
you,"  answered Orsino.  "My  fathersays 
that  Hercules  wore  a  lion's  skin.  He 
is  quite  right,  I  remember  all  about  it." 
**  Of  course,"  said  Gouache.  "  How 
could  we  make  such  a  mistake  !  " 

He  dropped  the  bit  of  chalk  he  held 
and  looked  at  Madame  d*Aragona. 

'*  What  difference  does  it  make  1 " 
asked  the  latter.  "  A  lion — a  tiger  ! 
I  am  sure  they  are  very  much  alike." 

'*  After  all,  it  is  a  tiresome  idea," 
said  the  painter.  "  You  will  be  much 
better  in  the  damask  cloak.  Besides, 
with  the  lion's  skin  you  should  have 
the  club — imagine  a  club  in  your 
hands !  And  Hercules  should  be 
spinning  at  your  feet — a  man  in  a 
black  coat  and  a  high  collar,  with  a 
distaff  !     It  is  an  absurd  idea  " 

"  You  should  not  call  my  ideas 
absurd  and  tiresome.     It  is  not  civil." 

"  I  thought  it  had  been  mine," 
observed  Gouache. 

"Not  at  all.  I  thought  of  it— it 
was  quite  original." 

Gouache  laughed  a  little  and  looked 
at  Orsino  as  though  asking  his  opinion. 

"  Madame  is  right."  said  the  latter. 
"  She  suggested  the  whole  idea — by 
having  yellow  eyes." 

"  You  see.  Gouache.  I  told  you  so. 
The  Prince  takes  my  view.  What 
will  voudo?" 

"  Whatever  you  command " 

"  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  ridicu- 
lous  " 


"I  do  not  see 


>» 


"  And  yet  I  must  have  the  tiger." 

"  I  am  ready." 

"  Doubtless, — but  you  must  think 
of  another  subject,  with  a  tiger  in  it." 

"Nothing  easier.  Noble  Roman 
damsel — Colosseum — tiger  about  to 
spring — rose " 


"  Just  heaven  !  What  an  old  story  I 
Besides,  I  have  not  the  type." 

"  The  Mysteries  of  Dionysus 
suggested  Gouache.  "Thyrsus,  leo- 
pard's skin " 

"A  Bacchante!  Fie,  monsieur — 
and  then  the  leopard  when  we  only 
have  a  tiger." 

"  Indian  princess  interviewed  by  a 
man-eater — jungle — new  moon — tropi- 
cal vegetation " 


"  You  can  think  of  nothing  but  sub- 
jects for  a  dark  type,"  said  Madame 
d'Aragona  impatiently. 

"  The  fact  is,  in  countries  where  the 
tiger  walks  abroad,  the  women  are 
generally  brunettes." 

"  I  hate  facts.  You  who  are  enthu- 
siastic, can  you  not  help  us?"  She 
turned  to  Orsino. 

"  Am  I  enthusiastic  ]  " 
"  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it.     Think  of 
something." 

Orsino  was  not  pleased.  He  would 
have  preferred  to  be  thought  cold  and 
impassive. 

"  What  can  I  say  ]  The  first  idea 
was  the  best.  Get  a  lion  instead  of  a 
tiger — nothing  is  simpler." 

"  For  my  part  I  prefer  the  damask 
cloak  and  the  original  picture,"  said 
Gouache  with  decision.  "All  this 
mythology  is  too  complicated — too 
Pompeian — how  shall  I  say?  Besides 
there  is  no  distinct  allusion.  A  Her- 
cules on  a  bracket — anybody  may 
have  that.  If  you  were  the  Marchestt 
di  San  Giacinto,  for  instance — oh,  then 
everyone  would  laugh." 
"  Why  ?  What  is  that  ?  " 
"  She  married  my  cousin,"  said 
Orsino.  "  He  is  an  enormous  giant, 
and  they  say  that  she  has  tamed 
him." 

*'  Ah,  no  !  That  would  not  do. 
Something  else,  please." 

Orsino  involuntarily  thought  of 
a  Sphinx  as  he  looked  at  the  '  mas- 
sive brow,  the  yellow,  sleepy  eyes,  and 
the  heavy  mouth.  He  wondered  how 
the  late  Aranjuez  had  lived  and  what 
death  he  had  died. 

He  offered  the  suggestion. 

**  It  would  be  appropriate,"  replied 


Don  Ordno. 


183 


Madame    d'Aragona.      "  The  Sphinx 
in  the  Desert.     Rome  is  a  desert  to 


me. 


»» 


"  It    only    depends     on    you " 

Orsino  began. 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  To  make  acquaint- 
ances, to  show  myself  a  little  every- 
where— it  is  simple  enough.  But  it 
wearies  me — until  one  is  caught  up 
in  the  machinery,  a  toothed  wheel 
going  round  with  the  rest,  one  only 
bores  one's  self,  and  I  may  leave  so 
soon.  Decidedly  it  is  not  worth  the 
trouble.     Is  it  ?  " 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  Orsino  as 
though  asking  his  advice.  Orsino 
laughed. 

"  How  can  you  ask  that  question  !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  Only  let  the  trouble 
be  ours." 

"Ah!  I  said  you  were  enthusias- 
tic.'^ She  shook  her  head,  and  rose 
from  her  seat.  "  It  is  time  for  me  to 
go.  We  have  done  nothing  this 
morning,  and  it  is  all  your  fault. 
Prince." 

"  I  am  distressed — I  will  not  intrude 
upon  your  next  sitting." 

"Oh — so  far  as  that  is   concerned 

"    She  did  not  finish  the  sentence, 

but  took  up  the  neglected  tiger's  skin 
from  the  chair  on  which  it  lay. 

She  threw  it  over  her  shoulders, 
bringing  the  grinning  head  over  her 
hair  and  holding  the  forepaws  in  her 
pointed  white  fingers.  She  came  very 
near  to  Gouache  and  looked  into  his 
eyes  her  closed  lips  smiling. 

'*  Admirable  !  "  exclaimed  Gouache. 
"It  is  impossible  to  tell  where  the 
woman  ends  and  the  tiger  begins.  Let 
me  draw  you  like  that." 

"  Oh  no  !  Not  for  anything  in  the 
world." 

JShe  turned  away  quickly  and 
droj>ped  the  skin  from  her  shoulders. 

'*  Vou  will  not  stay  a  little  longer  1 
You* will  not  let  me  try?"  Gouache 
setMHcd  disappointed. 

**  Jinpossi})le,"  she  answered,  put- 
ting on  her  hat  and  beginning  to  ar- 
range her  veil  before  a  mirror. 

(Jisino  watched  her  as  she  stood, 
her  aims  uplifted,  in  an  attitude  which 


is  almost  always  graceful,  even  for  an 
otherwise  ungraceful  woman.  Madame 
d'Aragona  was  perhaps  a  little  too 
short,  but  she  was  justly  proportioned 
and  appeared  to  be  rather  slight^ 
though  the  tight-fitting  sleeves  of  her 
frock  betrayed  a  remarkably  well- 
turned  arm.  Not  seeing  her  face,  one 
might  not  have  single*  I  her  out  of 
many  as  a  very  striking  woman,  for 
she  had  neither  the  stateliness  of 
Orsino's  mother,  nor  the  enchanting 
grace  which  distinguished  Gouache's 
wife.  But  no  one  could  look  into  her 
eyes  without  feeling  that  she  was 
very  far  from  being  an  ordinary 
woiuan. 

"  Quite  impossible,"  she  repeated, 
as  she  tucked  in  the  ends  of  her  veil 
and  then  turned  upon  the  two  men. 
"The  next  sitting '<  Whenever  you 
like  —  to-morrow  —  the  day  after — 
name  the  time." 

"  When  to-morrow  is  possible,  there 
is  no  choice,"  said  Gouache,  **  unless 
you  will  come  again  to-day." 

"  To-morrow,  then,  good-bye."  She 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  There  are  sketches  on  each  of 
my  fingers,  mad  a  me — principally  of 
tigers." 

"Good-bye  then — consider  your 
hand  shaken.   Are  you  going.  Prince  ?  " 

Orsino  had  taken  his  hat  and  was 
standing  beside  her. 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  put  you  into 
your  carriage  % " 

"I  shall  walk." 

"So  much  the  better.  Good-bye, 
Monsieur  Gouache." 

"Why  say  monsieur  ?  " 

"  As  you  like — you  are  older  than  I. 

"I?  Who  has  told  you  that 
legend  1  It  is  only  a  myth.  When  you 
are  sixty  years  old,  I  shall  still  be  five- 
and- twenty." 

"  And  I  ?  "  inquired  Madame  d'Ara- 
gona, who  was  still  young  enough  to 
laugh  at  age. 

"  As  old  as  you  were  yesterday,  not 
a  day  older." 

"  Why  not  say  to-day  % " 

"  Because  to-day  has  a  to-morrow — 
yesterday  has  none." 


a 


184 


Don  Ordno, 


"  You      are     delicious,     my      dear 
Gouache.     Good-bye.  * ' 

Madame  d'Aragona  went  out  with 
Orsino,  and  they  descended  the  broad 
staircase  together.  Orsino  was  not 
sure  whether  he  might  not  be  showing 
too  much  anxiety  to  remain  in  the 
company  of  his  new  acquaintance,  and 
as  he  realised  how  unpleasant  it  would 
be  to  sacrifice  the  walk  with  her,  he 
endeavoured  to  excuse  to  himself  his 
derogation  from  his  self-imposed  char- 
acter of  cool  superiority  and  indiffer- 
ence. She  was  very  amusing,  he  said 
to  himself,  and  he  had  nothing  in  the 
world  to  do.  He  never  had  anything 
to  do  since  his  education  had  been 
completed.  Why  should  he  not  walk 
with  Madame  d'Aragona  and  talk  to 
her  !  It  would  be  better  than  hanging 
about  the  club  or  reading  a  novel  at 
home.  The  hounds  did  not  meet  on 
that  day,  or  he  would  not  have  been 
at  Gouache's  at  all.  But  they  were  to 
meet  to-morrow,  and  he  would  there- 
fore not  see  Madame  d'Aragona. 

**  Gouache  is  an  old  friend  of  yours, 
I  suppose  ?"  observed  the  lady. 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  my  father's. 
He  is  almost  a  Roman.  He  married  a 
distant  connection  of  mine.  Donna 
Faustina  Montevarchi." 

'*  Ah,  yes — I  have  heard.  He  is  a 
man  of  immense  genius." 

"  He  is  a  man  I  envy  with  all  my 
heart,"  said  Orsino. 

"  You  envy  Gouache  1    I  should  not 

have  thought " 

**  No  ?  Ah,  madame,  to  me  a  man 
who  has  a  career,  a  profession,  an  in- 
terest, is  a  god." 

"  I  like  that,"  answered  Madame 
d'Aragona.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  you 
have  your  choice.  You  have  the 
world  before  you.  Write  your  name 
upon  it.  You  do  not  lack  enthusiasm. 
Is  it  the  inspiration  that  you  need  1 " 
"  Perhaps,"  said  Orsino  glancing 
meaningly  at  her  as  she  looked  at 
him. 

"  That  is  not  new,"  thought  she^ 
"  but  he  is  charming,  all  the  same. 
They  say,"  she  added  aloud,  "  that 
genius  finds  inspiration  everywhere." 


"  Alas  !  I  am  not  a  genius.  What 
I  ask  is  an  occupation,  and  permanent 
interest.  The  thing  is  impossible,  but 
I  am  not  resigned." 

"  Before  thirty  everything  is  possi- 
ble," said  Madame  d'Aragona.  She 
knew  that  the  mere  mention  of  so 
mature  an  age  would  be  flattering  to 
such  a  boy. 

"  The  objections  are  insurmount- 
able," replied  Orsino. 

**  What  objections  ?  Remember  that 
I  do  not  know  Rome,  nor  the  Romans." 
**  We    are    petrified   in  traditions. 
Spicca  said  the  other  day  that  there 
was  but  one  hope  for  us.     The  Ameri- 
cans may  yet   discover   Italy,    as   we 
once  discovered  America." 
Madame  d'Aragona  smiled. 
*'Who    is     Spicca?"    she   inquired, 
with  a  lazy  glance  at  her  companion's 
face. 

**  Spicca  !  Surely  you  have  heard  of 
him.  He  used  to  be  a  famous  duellist. 
He  is  our  great  wit.  My  father  likes 
him  very*  much — he  is  an  odd  charac- 
ter." 

"There  will  be  all  the  more  credit 
in  succeeding,  if  you  have  to  break 
through  a  barrier  of  tradition  and  pre- 
judice," said  Madame  d'Aragona,  re- 
verting rather  abruptly  to  the  first 
subject. 

"You  do  not  know  what  that 
means."  Orsino  shook  his  head  in- 
credulously. "  You  have  never  tried 
it." 

"  No.  How  could  a  woman  be 
placed  in  such  a  position?  " 

' *  That  is  just  it.  You  cannot  under- 
stand me." 

"That  does  not  follow.  Women 
often  understand  men — men  they  love 
or  detest — better  than  men  them- 
selves." 

"Do  you  love  me,  madame  1"  asked 
Orsino  with  a  smile. 

"I  have  just  made  your  acquaint- 
ance," laughed  Madame  d'Aragona. 
"It  is  a  little  too  soon." 

"  But  then,  according  to  you,  if  you 
understand  me,  you  detest  me." 

"  Well  ?  If  I  do  ? "  She  was  stiU 
laughing. 


Don  Orsino, 


185 


"  Then  I  ought  to  disappear,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"You  do  not  understand  women. 
Anything  is  better  than  indifference. 
When  you  see  that  you  are  disliked, 
then  refuse  to  go  away.  It  is  the  very 
moment  to  remain.  Do  not  submit  to 
dislike.     Revenge  yourself." 

"T  will  try,"  said  Orsino  consider- 
ably amused. 

"  Upon  me  ? " 

"  Since  you  advise  it " 

"  Have  I  said  that  I  detest  you  1 " 

"  More  or  less." 

"It  was  only  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion to  my  argument.  I  was  not 
serious." 

"  You  have  not  a  serious  character, 
I  fancy,"  said  Orsino. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  pass  judgment  on 
me  after  an  hour's  acquaintance  1 " 

"  Since  you  have  judged  me  !  You 
have  said  five  times  that  I  am  enthusi- 
astic." 

"  That  is  an  exaggeration.  Besides, 
one  cannot  say  a  true  thing  too  often." 

"How  you  run  on,  madame  !  " 

"  And  you — to  tell  me  to  my  face 


that  I  am  not  serious.  It  is  unheard 
of.  Is  that  the  way  you  talk  to  your 
compatriots?" 

"It  would  not  be  true.  But  they 
would  contradict  me,  as  you  do.  They 
wish  to  be  thought  gay." 

"  Do  they  1  I  woiild  like  to  know 
them." 

"  Nothing  is  easier.  Will  you  allow 
me  the  honour  of  undertaking  the 
matter  ? " 

They  had  reached  the  door  of 
Madame  d^Aragona's  hotel.  She  stood 
still  and  looked  curiously  at  Orsino. 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  answered, 
rather  coldly.     "It  would  be   asking 

too    much    of    you too    much    of 

society,  and  far  too  much  of  me. 
Thanks.     Good-bye." 

"May  I  come  and  see  you?"  asked 
Orsino. 

He  knew  very  well  that  he  had 
gone  too  far,  and  his  voice  was  correctly 
contrite. 

"I  dare  say  we  shall  meet  some- 
where," she  •  answered,  entering  the 
hotel. 


{To  he  continued.) 


/ 


186 


HUNGRY   CHILDREN. 


There  is  in  the  Arena  Chapel  at 
Padua  a  fresco  by  Giotto  which 
represents  Charity  as  a  tall  and 
shapely  woman.  One  of  her  hands  is 
extended  to  receive  a  heart  which  is 
being  given  her  from  above  ;  with  the 
other  she  holds  a  basket  full  of  good 
things  She  is  not  blind,  like  Justice. 
Though  her  heart  comes  direct  from 
Heaven,  and  her  expression  is  one  of 
reverence,  her  eyes  are  her  own,  and 
she  is  wide  awake.  She  stands  on  a 
heap  of  money-bags  ;  but  money  is  no 
part  of  herself.  Time  has  dealt  hardly 
with  the  picture,  and  a  crack  now  runs 
down  its  middle  defacing  the  figure. 
But  the  money-bags  are  left  intact. 

The  fate  of  Giotto's  fresco  is  sym- 
bolical of  the  process  which  has  taken 
place  in  the  popular  conception  of 
charity.  In  its  original  sense  the 
word  denoted  an  unselfish  regard  for 
the  good  of  others,  and  certainly  did 
not  connote  material  relief ;  but  in  a 
commercial  age  we  have  come  to  disre- 
gard anything  which  cannot  be  valued 
by  the  standard  of  money.  We  are 
nowadays  too  apt  to  confine  the  use  of 
the  term  to  gifts  of  pounds,  shillings, 
and  pence,  or  of  the  food  or  clothing 
which  they  will  buy.  If  we  wish  to 
speak  of  that  quality  which  seeks  the 
highest  welfare  of  others  without  look- 
ing for  gratitude  to  ourselves,  or  in 
many  cases  for  immediately  visible 
results  in  its  objects,  we  have  to  make 
use  of  a  many-syllabled  and  pedantic 
word.  But  if  philanthropy  is  a  term 
difficult  to  pronounce  and  rarely  em- 
ployed, the  difficulty  and  rarity  of  the 
practice  of  the  virtue  which  it  desig- 
nates are  correspondingly  great  in  an 
age  when  almsgiving  has  usurped  the 
name  of  charity. 

Of  the  various  forms  of  almsgiving 
which  have  spread  to  a  great  extent 
in  recent  years,  none  is  more  popular 


than  the  provision  of  meals  to  hungry 
children.  The  operation  of  the  Ele- 
mentary Education  Acts  have  brought 
before  the  notice  of  the  public  the 
existence  of  much  poverty  which  was 
previously  latent.  The  children  of  the 
streets  have  always  been  sickly,  but 
compulsory  attendance  at  school  has 
brought  their  pale  faces  into  the  light 
of  day.  A  few  years  ago  an  outcry  was 
raised  against  over-pressure,  and  it  was 
alleged  that  the  physical  and  mental 
powers  of  the  children  were  overtaxed 
by  the  educational  curriculum.  It 
was  replied  that  the  over-pressure  was 
only  relative,  and  that  the  tasks  were 
not  too  severe  for  healthy  and  well- 
nourished  children.  Then  began  a 
new  cry ;  and  in  many  large  towns 
charitable  persons  set  themselves  to 
provide  dinners  for  the  children  at- 
tending elementary  schools.  In  London 
many  agencies  having  this  object  arose. 
Of  these  the  most  important  were  the 
Destitute  Children's  Dinner  Society, 
the  Board  School  Children's  Free  Din- 
ner Fund,  the  (so-called)  Self-support- 
ing Penny  Dinner  Council,  the  Poor 
Children's  Aid  Society,  the  South  Lon- 
don Schools  Dinner  Fund,  and  the 
Farm  House  Fund.  The  matter  was  at 
length  taken  up  by  the  London  School 
Board,  and  in  November  1889  under 
their  auspices  several  of  the  aforesaid 
agencies  were  amalgamated  into  the 
London  Schools  Dinner  Association. 
At  the  end  of  July  1890  that  Society 
had  aided  in  the  supply  of  over  263,000 
dinners.  If  the  movement  continues 
to  grow  at  this  rate  it  is  clear  that  it 
will  become  no  inconsiderable  force  for 
good, — or  evil — in  the  lives  of  the 
poor ;  and  we  may  well  pause  and 
consider  what  principles  are  involved 
in  its  adoption,  what  necessity  there  is 
for  it,  and  whither  it  tends. 

Before  proceeding  further,  however, 


Hungry  Children 


187 


I  ought  perhaps  to  remark  that  at- 
tempts have  been  made  in  many 
schools  to  provide  meals  on  a  self- 
supporting  basis.  So  far  as  these  at- 
tempts have  been  successful  they  do 
not  faU  within  the  range  of  the  pres- 
ent article ;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
they  have,  I  believe,  in  no  case,  at 
any  rate  in  London,  quite  succeeded  in 
their  object ;  and  so  far  as  a  charitable 
element  has  been  admitted  into  such 
scheme,  it  becomes  subject  to  my  criti- 
cism. For  the  sake  of  simplicity 
however  I  shall  refer  directly  only  to 
the  distribution  of  dinners  gratuitously 
or  at  nominal  prices. 

There  are  few  more  pathetic  sights 
than  that  of  a  class  of  childien  in  a  very 
poor  school,  set  to  do  their  tasks  when 
their  pale  faces  and  drowsy  manner 
suggest  to  the  mind  of  the  visitor  the 
possibility  that  some  of  them  have  had 
no  breakfast.  And  when  the  London 
School  Board  tells  us  that  in  London 
there  are  on  any  morning  some  40,000 
children  attending  elementary  schools 
suffering  from  want  of  food,  can 
any  humane  person  pass  the  matter 
lightly  by?  It  is  clear  that  half- 
starved  children  cannot  properly  as- 
similate the  instruction  given  them, 
and  that  in  dealing  with  them  much  of 
the  teacher's  labour  must  be  thrown 
away.  If  we  pay  heavy  rates  to  sup- 
port an  enormous  educational  machine, 
"  why  spoil  the  ship  to  save  a  ha'porth 
of  tar?  "  We  are  logically  bound,  so 
say  our  educational  entliusiasts,  to  see 
that  the  finishing  touch  required  to 
perfect  the  machine  is  not  omitted. 
For  once  the  plain  man  is  inclined  to 
be  on  the  side  of  the  enthusiast.  For 
though,  being  an  Englishman  and  not 
a  Frenchman,  he  is  not  distressed  by 
logical  inconsistencies,  the  alleviation 
of  hunger  will  always  appeal  to  his 
sympathy.  And  can  a  gift  which  helps 
forward  the  cause  of  education  do  any 
harm  either  to  the  recipient  or  to  the 
community  ? 

This  is  the  obvious  side  of  the  ques- 
tion. There  is  however  a  school  of 
pei'sons,  to  which  the  Charity  Organis- 
ation Society  belongs,  who  regard  it 


from  another  point  of  view.  This 
school  holds  that  it  is  unwise  in 
charitable  matters  to  attempt  to  deal 
with  children  apart  from  the  families 
to  which  they  belong.  The  family 
and  not  the  individual  is  the  unit  of 
civilised  life.  You  cannot  as  a  rule 
benefit  the  individual  unless  you  bene- 
fit the  family,  and  you  cannot  injure 
the  family  without  in  some  degree 
harming  all  the  members  of  it.  Na 
doubt  there  is  much  poverty  apparent 
at  our  elementary  schools,  but  this 
must  be  so  long  as  poverty  exists  at 
all.  It  has  decreased,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  decrease  with  the  general  im- 
provement in  the  conditions  under 
which  the  poor  live.  Meanwhile  any 
circumstance  which  retards  that  im- 
provement will  injure  the  children 
equally  with  the  parents.  The  regular 
provision  of  charitable  meals  to  the 
poorest  children  will  in  fact  operate  a& 
a  regular  allowance  to  the  parents, — 
an  allowance  proportioned  in  quantity 
to  the  number  of  children.  Such  an 
allowanc3  will,  it  is  contended,  work 
prejudicially  in  at  least  two  distinct 
ways.  It  will  tend  to  depreciate 
the  wages  of  unskilled  work;  and, 
worse  than  this,  it  will  offer  a  direct 
encouragement  to  early  marriages,  will 
lessen  the  incentive  of  parents  to  self- 
reliance  and  providence,  and  will  sap 
their  sense  of  responsibility  in  its 
most  important  relation,  that  of  family 
life.J 

Are  these  objections  real,  or  are 
they  the  mere  pedantry  of  deduction  ? 
This  is  the  question  which  we  have  to 
answer.     It  may  be  conceded  at  once 

^  It  may,  by  way  of  a  redudio  ad (ibsurdumy. 
be  asked,  Would  not  this  contention,  if  sound, 
condemn  free,  or  even  assisted  education — a 
measure  which  has  been  generally  apiroved 
by  public  opinion  ?  Extremists  would  of 
course  say  thut  this  is  so.  There  is,  however, 
a  ^reat  distinction  between  the  free  provision 
of  education  and  of  the  material  necessaries  of 
life.  In  tlie  case  of  education  the  need  is  not 
instinctively  felt,  and  the  demand  for  it  is 
stimulated  by  the  supply.  In  the  case  of 
material  necessaries  their  want  serves  as  the 
most  potent  motive  for  work,  and  their  gra- 
tuitous provision  nuist  in  some  degree  o[)erate 
to  weaken  that  motive. 


188 


Hungry  Children, 


that  the  experiments,  so  long  as  they 
are  carried  out  only  on  a  small  scale, 
cannot  do  any  great  harm  ;  but  the 
advocates  of  the  system  make  no 
secret  of  their  desire  to  extend  it  as 
widely  as  possible,  and  we  can  consider 
it  fairly  only  by  imagining  it  in  opera- 
tion generally  throughout  our  poorer 
schools. 

We  need  not  go  back  to  the  history 
of  the  old  Poor  Law  in  order  to  find 
illustrations  of  the  truth  that  an  al- 
lowance in  supplementation  of  wages 
tends  to  depress  them.  There  is  prac- 
tically an  unlimited  quantity  of  un- 
skilled labour  in  London,  and  the 
wages  of  the  lowest  kind  of  work  is 
determined  by  the  cost  of  living  the 
cheapest  life  which  the  worker  regards 
as  more  tolerable  than  that  of  the 
workhouse.  It  is  clear  that  any 
charitable  allowance  enables  the  re- 
cipient to  sell  his  labour  at  a  lower 
price  than  he  could  without  its  help. 
It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  when  the 
out-relief  which  was  freely  given  to 
widows  in  Whitechapel  was  withdrawn 
u  few  years  ago,  the  wages  of  char- 
women rose  in  that  locality.  There 
is  an  instance  which  occurred  within 
my  own  knowledge,  which  shows  that 
the  operation  of  the  principle  may  be 
observed  even  in  the  history  of  a 
single  individual.  A  lad,  whose  family 
had  been  helped  by  a  charitable  so- 
ciety, was  placed  in  a  home  where  he 
lived  rent  free,  going  daily  to  his 
work  as  an  errand-boy.  He  gave 
satisfaction  to  his  employer  and  re- 
mained in  the  situation  for  a  consider- 
able period.  His  wages  however  were 
not  raised  as  was  expected.  After 
the  lapse  of  much  time  the  employer 
was  approached  on  the  subject ;  he 
gave  as  the  reason  for  his  treatment 
of  the  boy,  the  fact  that  as  the  lad 
had  no  rent  to  pay  he  could  afford  to 
live  on  his  original  wages.  This  illus- 
tration may  appear  trivial,  but  when 
we  reflect  that  such  cases  could  be 
multiplied  indefinitely,  we  cannot  deny 
the  danger  of  meddling  with  such  a 
delicate  machine  as  that  by  which 
wages  are  regulated.     It  may  be  noted 


that  in  one  district  where  the  promo- 
tion of  dinners  was  suggested,  the 
strongest  exception  was  taken  to  it  on 
that  ground  by  working  men  them- 
selves. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  question  of 
the  results  which  the  free  feeding  of 
children  is  likely  to  produce  upon 
character.  The  practice,  if  generally 
adopted  in  our  poor  schools  would,  as 
we  have  already  remarked,  be  in  effect 
to  give  a  regular  charitable  allowance 
to  the  poor  proportionate  in  amount 
to  the  number  of  their  children.  This 
is  in  fact  what  was  done  in  the  early 
decades  of  this  century  by  the  admin- 
istrators of  our  old  Poor  Law.  The 
allowance  was  then  provided  by  the 
rates,  but  so  far  as  the  recipients  were 
concerned  the  principle  was  the  same. 
What  was  the  result  ?  No  one  who 
has  carefully  studied  the  Eeport  of 
the  Poor  Law  Commission  of  1834  (on 
which  our  present  Poor  Law  is 
founded)  can  doubt  that  the  result  of 
the  system  was  the  wholesale  demoral- 
isation of  the  poorest  class.  Parents 
came  to  regard  the  parish  and  not 
themselves  as  primarily  responsible 
for  the  care  of  their  children.  They 
married  without  any  prospect  of  being 
able  to  support  a  family :  they  went 
on  to  look  to  the  parish  for  work  as 
well  as  money ;  and  in  this  way  self- 
reliance  became  gradually  undermined. 
At  length  the  evil  was  so  patent  that 
drastic  legislation  was  seen  to  be 
necessary  in  order  to  meet  it,  and  in 
the  end  the  whole  allowance  system 
was  swept  away.  Nowadays  charity 
is  constantly  attempting  to  re-intro- 
duce the  practices  which  were  dis- 
carded by  the  Poor  Law  as  deleterious 
to  the  true  interests  of  the  poor.  I 
believe  that  the  school-feeding  move- 
ment is  one  such  attempt.  A  bowl  of 
milk  offered  to  a  starving  cat  will 
rapidly  create  a  crowd  of  starving 
cats ;  and  if  free  dinners  are  offered 
at  school  to  hungry  children,  the  num- 
ber of  hungry  children  increases  in- 
stead of  diminishing.  It  is  a  signifi- 
cant fact  that,  in  some  schools  where 
the  experiment  has    been   tried,  the 


Hungi'y  Ghildrtn. 


189 


managers  have  found  it  necessary  to 
bring  it  to  a  speedy  termination  on 
account  of  the  constant  growth  of 
the  number  of  applications  for  a  place 
on  the  list  of  beneficiaries.  Too  often 
the  application  does  not  stop  at  the 
request  for  food.  Clothes  also  are 
demanded ;  and  one  society  which  be- 
gan by  providing  dinners,  is  now 
appealiiig  to  the  public  for  help  to 
provide  clothes  regularly  to  children 
at  school.  In  charitable  matters  a 
supply  creates  a  demand,  and  the 
children  of  vicious,  idle,  and  improvi- 
dent parents  will  in  the  main  always 
want.  Science  tells  us  that  the  poor 
must  seek  their  well-being  in  learning 
to  conform  to  the  natural  laws  and 
conditions  under  which  they  live.  It 
is  a  law  of  nature  that  children  must 
suffer  for  their  parents'  vices  and 
follies.  Charity  may  reprieve  in- 
dividuals from  the  operation  of  this 
law,  but  cannot  repeal  it ;  and  by 
obscuring  the  certainty  of  its  opera- 
tion, may  only  intensify  the  evil 
which  it  seeks  to  remove. 

But,  it  may  be  asked,  does  not  this 
line  of  argument  strike  at  the  root  of 
all  charity  %  Are  the  families  of  the 
vicious,  the  idle,  and  the  improvident 
to  be  left  to  suffer,  in  order  that  the 
community  may  realise  the  conse- 
quences of  vice  and  folly,  and  future 
generations  be  the  wiser  and  better 
for  the  lesson  1  Our  best  instincts  are 
all  opposed  to  this  doctrine  of  laisaez 
faire.  Charity  is  the  most  divine  of 
human  qualities.  The  pessimist  may 
well  exclaim — 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life. 

It  is  because  the  Christian  and  the 
political  economist  *  alike  too  often 
answer  this  question  in  the  affirmative 
that  they  are  frequently  found  in  op- 
position to  each  other.  A  discussion 
of  religious  questions  would  be  out  of 
place  in  this  article,  but  I  may  per- 
haps be  allowed  to  offer  a  suggestion 
to  those  who  think  that  the  teaching 


of  Christ  inculcates  the  indiscriminate 
relief  of  immediate  distress.  Is  it  an 
irreverent  view  of  revelation  that  in- 
spiration has  given  us  no  truths  which 
we  are  capable  of  discovering  for  our- 
selves %  And  if  this  view  be  correct, 
may  we  not  be  content  to  see  in  such 
commands  as  "  Give  to  him  that  asketh 
of  thee,  and  from  him  that  would 
borrow  of  thee  turn  thou  not  away," 
merely  an  inculcation  of  the  charitable 
spirit  which  leaves  us  free  to  withhold 
our  hand — painful  as  it  may  be  to  us 
to  do  iio — in  cases  where  experience 
shows  us  that  our  interference  would 
in  the  long  run  produce  more  misery 
than  it  removes  ?  "Was  not  Giotto 
right  when  he  painted  Charity  as  re- 
ceiving her  heart  alone  direct  from 
Heaven  ? 

I  have  attempted  in  the  preceding 
paragraphs  to  do  something  towards 
clearing  the  mist  in  which  the  discus- 
sion of  charitable  questions  is  generally 
involved.  Let  me  now  return  to  the 
consideration  of  the  concrete  question 
of  school-dinners  in  the  light  of  actual 
experience. 

Three  questions  naturally  suggest 
themselves.  (1.)  Is  the  distress  which 
the  scheme  is  intended  to  meet  so  great 
as  is  represented  1  (2.)  Do  the  dinners 
afford  any  remedy  for  it  ?  (3.)  Is  it 
possible  in  the  administration  of  the 
dinners  to  minimise  the  evils  which 
would  result  from  their  indiscriminate- 
distribution  1 

Some  very  useful  evidence  bearing 
on  these  questions  has  been  collected 
by  a  special  committee  of  the  Charity 
Organisation  Society,  which  was  ap- 
pointed in  December  1889  to  consider 
the  best  means  of  dealing  with  school 
children  alleged  to  be  in  want  of  food. 
This  committee  selected  five  poor 
schools  in  different  parts  of  London, 
in  which  dinners  were  being  given  on 
the  system  advocated  by  the  London 
School  Dinners  Association.  Having 
obtained  the  lists  of  the  recipients  of 
the  charity  they  made  careful  inquiry 
into  the  conditions  under  which  they 
were  living.  The  number  of  cases 
examined  was   necessarily  small,  but 


190 


Htingry  Children, 


they  were  drawn  from  widely  different 
neighbourhoods,  and  there  is  no  reason 
to  think  that  they  were  exceptional. 
The  results  of  this  investigation  are 
very  instructive.  Those  school-mana- 
gers, who  know  the  haphazard  way  in 
which  the  large  figures  said  to  repre- 
sent the  number  of  starving  children 
in  London  were  compiled,  will  not  be 
surprised  to  hear  that  of  a  hundred 
and  one  families  whose  children  were 
receiving  free  dinners,  forty-nine  were 
found  not  to  require  material  assistance 
at  all.  We  must  not  forget  that  these 
cases  were  all  selected  on  account  of 
their  apparently  exceptional  poverty. 
It  is  true,  however,  that  the  number 
of  half-starved  children  may  have  been 
greatly  exaggerated,  and  yet  that  there 
may  be  many  thousands  in  great  want. 
This  brings  us  to  our  second  question. 
On  this  head  the  answer  of  oui*  investi- 
gators is  very  definite.  In  some  five  or 
six  cases  only,  they  assert,  out  of  the 
total  of  a  hundred  and  one,  could  the 
temporary  supply  of  meals  to  the 
children  be  regarded  as  an  adequate 
remedy.    Here  is  a  typical  example  : — 

Father,  a  builders  labourer,  earning, 
when  in  work,  20s.  to  27«.  a  week.  Mother 
getting  68.  a  week  by  washing.  She  is 
not  a  good  manager,  and  the  house  is  un- 
tidy. Both  out  of  work  at  the  time  of 
inquiry,  everything  pawned,  10«.  Qd.  due 
for  rent,  and  family  subsisting  on  land- 
lady's charity.  The  eldest  girl,  who  had 
chest  delicacy,  was  receiving  one  halfpenny 
meal  a  week  I 

In  another  case,  in  which  a  boy  was 
receiving  dinners,  it  was  ascertained 
that  the  family  was  in  distress  through 
the  father's  illness.  The  latter,  a  cop- 
per worker,  had  suffered  for  three  weeks 
from  chest  disease  ;  the  wife  earned  a 
few  shillings  by  odd  jobs ;  there  were 
four  children,  of  whom  the  eldest  earned 
six  shillings  a  week  as  errand-boy  ;  the 
rent  was  four  shillings  a  week.  "What 
in  such  a  case  as  this  was  the  use  of 
giving  a  few  dinners  to  one  child  ?  As 
a  result  of  the  inquiry  which  proved 
that  the  family  were  most  respectable, 
the  case  was  taken  in  hand  by  the 
local  Charity  Organisation  Committee. 


The  man  was  provided  with  liberal 
diet  and  the  best  hospital  and  conva- 
lescent treatment ;  and  an  excellent 
mangle  with  a  good  connection  was 
obtained  for  the  wife,  by  which  they 
would  earn  over  twelve  shillings  a 
week  with  a  prospect  of  increase.  The 
cost  of  this  case  was  some  .£20,  but  a 
family  was  saved  from  pauperism. 

The  case  is  a  good  illustration  of  the 
better  methods  of  charity.  Political 
economy  can  raise  no  objection  to 
charitable  interference  where  its  effect 
is  to  lift  a  family  into  a  position  of 
self-dependence.  First  ascertain  that 
temporary  assistance  is  likely  to  pro- 
duce permanent  benefit,  and  then  spare 
no  time  or  trouble  in  your  efforts  to 
make  that  assistance  as  thorough  as 
possible.  It  is  this  personal  element 
which  distinguishes  true  charity  from 
mere  almsgiving.  Friendly  influence, 
which,  instead  of  saving  a  man  trouble, 
encourages  him  to  greater  efforts,  is 
not  a  pauperising  force.  It  is,  as  a 
rule,  only  when  a  family  is  in  need  of 
material  assistance,  that  a  stranger 
has  the  opportunity  of  extending  a 
helping  hand,  but  the  cause  of  distress 
is  generally  either  ignorance  or  some 
defect  of  character,  and  no  remedy  is 
worthy  of  the  name  which  does  not 
attack  the  evil  at  its  root.  To  cut  the 
stalk  merely  increases  the  vigour  of 
its  growth  in  the  future.  Money  is 
an  instrument  which  charity  employs*; 
but  the  mere  gift  of  money  is  in  most 
cases  not  charity  at  all,  but  poison. 

Let  us  now  consider  what  answer 
our  cases  yield  to  the  third  question. 
The  provision  of  meals  to  children,  it 
may  be  argued,  is  not  a  panacea,  but 
it  is  useful  so  far  as  it  goes.  If  we  en- 
trust the  selection  of  the  recipients  to 
the  teachers  and  managers,  can  we  not 
ensure  that  those  only  who  are  in  need 
are  helped  1  To  this  we  can  only  reply 
that  these  safeguards  have  proved  in- 
sufficient in  the  past.  The  teachers 
as  a  rule  have  no  time,  and  the  mana- 
gers no  inclination  to  make  themselves 
acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of 
the  children  in  their  homes.  As  I 
have  already  stated,  inquiry  has  shown 


Hungry  Children. 


191 


that  these  excellent  persons  may   be 
mistaken  as  to  the  need  of  material 
assistance  in  forty-nine  out  of  a  hun- 
dred and  one  cases.     The  cause  of  the 
mistake  is  generally  the  appearance  of 
the  child.  Unwholesome  surroundings, 
or  some  temporary  ailment,  is  as  often 
the  cause  of  paleness   as   is   want   of 
food.     In  other  instances  the  delicacy 
is  constitutional.     In  one  of  the  ex- 
amined cases  a  child  who  was  thought 
to  be  underfed  was  really  sickening 
for   the    whooping-cough,    and    when 
subsequently  visited  was  rosy  and  fat. 
A  more  striking  case  was  that  of  a 
boy  who  was  thought  to  be  underfed 
because  he  was  naturally  delicate,  and 
was    recommended    for    the    dinners. 
The  family  proved  to  be  in  compara- 
tively prosperous  circumstances.     They 
were  just  repaying  the  last  instalment 
of  a  loan  of  £7  ;  and  a  younger  child  ' 
was  at    the   same  time  being  treated 
for  full-bloodedness    consequent  upon 
over-feeding. 

Here  again  is  another  way  in  which 
children  find  their  way  on  to  the 
dinner-list.  Tommy  played  truant 
one  day  and  spent  his  school-fee. 
Asked  next  day  for  an  explanation  of 
his  absence,  he  said  that  his  mother 
had  not  got  the  money  to  give  him. 
She  was  a  widow  with  three  children. 
At  once  the  fees  were  remitted  for 
thirteen  weeks.  The  remission  was 
accepted  as  unmistakable  proof  of 
poverty  by  the  dinner-givers  and  the 
boy  was  put  on  the  free  list.  It 
was  discovered  that  the  mother,  in  ad- 
dition to  her  earnings  of  ten  shillings 
a  week,  was  receiving  from  her  late 
husband's  employers  an  allowance  of 
half-a-crown  a  week  for  each  child. 

Dirt  has  before  now  been  considered 
sufficient  evidence  of  poverty  to  en- 
title a  child  to  free  meals.  In  a  case 
which  came  to  my  notice  this  test  was 
applied  witli  unjust  but  ludicrous 
results.  While  a  widow,  with  two  boys, 
was  washing  one  of  them  the  other  es- 
caped into  the  street.  On  their  appear- 
ance at  school  the  latter  was  promptly 
awarded  a  dinner,  but  the  former  on 
account  of  his  "  shining  morning  face  " 


was  decided  not  to  be  in  need  of  it. 
The  instances  on  which  I  have  dwelt 
may  seem  trivial,  but  it  is  of  a  series 
of  such  trivial  events  that  the  lives  of 
the  poor  are  composed,  by  a  series  of 
such  trivial  influences  that  their  char- 
acters are  made  or  marred.  The  evi- 
dence at  our  disposal  is,  I  think, 
sufficient  to  convince  an  impartial 
student  that  the  beneficial  results  of 
the  wholesale  provision  of  charitable 
meals  are  extremely  small,  while  we 
cannot  doubt  that  it  tends  to  initiate 
both  the  children  and  the  parents  into 
the  practice  of  cadging. 

A  reply  may  of  course  be  made  by 
the  advocates  of  the  dinner-system. 
Whatever  pauperising  tendency  the 
distribution  might  have  in  itself,  is, 
so  it  is  argued,  more  than  counter- 
balanced by  the  effect  of  the  improve- 
ment in  education  which  it  brings 
about.  But  do  facts  bear  out  this 
assertion  ?  Is  it  an  acquaintance  with 
the  three  R's,  or  is  it  home  influence, 
which  forms  the  character  of  the 
child  ?  Follow  up  the  careers  of  those 
who  have  received  doles  in  their  youth, 
and  you  will  find  them  again  and 
again  seeking  charitable  help  in  after 
years.  Moreover  I  greatly  doubt 
whether  there  are  many  cases  in  which 
the  dinners  do  facilitate  education. 
Many  children  who  appear  to  be  in 
want  of  food  are  not  so  in  fact.  Most 
of  those  who  are  really  half-starved 
are  the  offspring  of  drunkards,  and 
I  have  a  strong  suspicion  that 
parents  of  this  class  often  allow  for 
any  charitable  assistance  given  at 
school,  and  deduct  a  proportionate 
quantity  from  the  meals  supplied  at 
home.  In  a  word,  if  the  number  of 
cases  in  which  the  cause  of  education 
is  promoted  by  the  dinners  be  small, 
the  demoralization  which  they  pro- 
duce is  widespread. 

The  alternative  course  suggested  is 
careful  investigation  of  the  circum- 
stances of  the  whole  family,  followed 
by  adequate  assistance  wherever  those 
circumstances  can  be  really  improved. 
This  method  calls  for  the  expenditure 
of  much  personal  effort,  and  often  of 


192 


Hungry  Children, 


no  small  amount  of  money.  But  it 
is  better  to  deal  with  a  few  cases 
thoroughly  than  to  play  with  a  large 
number. 

If  my  observations  are  correct  the 
opposition  between  the  interest  of  the 
individual  and  that  of  the  community, 
which  at  first  sight  seems  so  often  to 
baffle  us  in  the  administration  of  char- 
ity, will  in  most  cases  disappear.  To 
put  my  conclusion  shortly,  the  promia- 
cuous  and  aimless  almsgiving  which 
attracts  and  manufactures  cadgers, 
does  not  really  benefit  the  individual 
recipient,  while  the  careful  and  con- 
sidered charity  which  raises  a  family 
to  independence  does  no  injury  to  the 
community,  because  it  offers  no  en- 
couragement to  indolence  and  impro- 
vidence. 

There  are  however  cases  in  which 
the  greatest  difficulty  arises.  I 
have  pointed  out  that  any  interfer- 
ence with  parental  responsibility  is 
wrong  in  principle.  It  tends  to  weaken 
family  ties  and  is  injurious  to  society 
at  large.  Any  attempt  therefore  to 
deal  with  a  child  apart  from  its  parents 
is  fraught  with  danger.  We  have 
seen  that,  so  long  as  the  child  is 
living  at  home,  such  attempts  are  not, 
as  a  rule,  likely  to  attain  even  their 
immediate  object.  Moreover  the  diffi- 
culty of  ascertaining  the  real  means  of 
parents,  at  any  rate  in  large  towns, 
is  great.  In  cases  where  the  parish 
has  to  assist  a  widow  with  several 
children,  the  consensus  of  enlightened 
opinion  is  for  this  reason  entirely  in 
favour  of  the  principle  of  taking 
some  of  the  children  into  the  parish 
schools,  instead  of  making  a  regular 
allowance  to  the  mother.  But  this 
course  again  is  attended  with  some 
very  serious  disadvantages.  It  is 
probable  that  even  unsatisfactory 
home  influences  are  better  for  a  child 
than  their  entire  absence.  Boys  and 
girls  brought  up  in  institutions,  how- 
ever well  managed,  are  apt  to  have 
one  side  of  their  nature  stunted.  They 
may  learn  to  be  honest,  thrifty,  and 
well-mannered  ;  but  the  affections  and 
domestic     virtues,    which    even    bad 


homes  and  disreputable  parents  will 
inspire,  are  too  often  undeveloped. 
Yet  even  inside  an  institution  the  in- 
stinct for  family  relations  will  strive 
to  find  an  outlet.  Could  anything  be 
more  pathetic  than  the  following 
anecdote  which  comes  from  the  matron 
of  a  Poor  Law  school?  Some  years 
ago  a  baby  was  found  deserted  in,  let 
us  say,  Berwick  Street.  Her  parent- 
age was  never  traced,  and  she  was  in 
due  course  sent  by  the  guardians  to 
their  district  school.  For  want  of 
another  name  she  was  called  after  the 
place  of  her  discovery,  Ada  Berwick. 
By  a  strange  coincidence  another  baby 
was  found  a  few  years  later  in  the 
same  street,  and  taken  to  the  same 
institution,  where  she  naturally  re- 
ceived the  same  surname.  What  was 
not  Ada's  delight  .when  the  two  chil- 
dren met !  The  newcomer  bore  her 
name,  and  must  therefore,  she  main- 
tained, be  her  sister.  She  adopted  her 
forthwith,  watching  over  and  befriend- 
ing her  in  every  possible  way. 

Charitable  persons  therefore,  if  they 
are  interested  in  the  real  welfare  of  a 
family,  will  strain  every  nerve  to  put 
the  parents  into  a  position  of  self- 
dependence  before  they  break  up  the 
family.  There  are,  however,  extreme 
cases  in  which  children  are  exposed  to 
such  physical  hardship  or  moral  danger 
that  their  interest  clearly  demands 
their  complete  removal  from  their  sur- 
roundings. The  parents  may  or  may 
not  be  able  to  maintain  them  properly. 
In  the  former  alternative  we  are  once 
more  met  with  the  old  difficulty.  By 
taking  the  care  of  the  family  off  the 
parents'  hands  we  shall  be  offering  a 
premium  to  the  neglect  of  children  by 
selfish  or  vicious  parents.  How  is  this 
difficulty  to  be  coped  with  ? 

The  Industrial  Schools  Acts  are  in- 
tended to  provide  a  means  of  dealing 
with  these  cases.  Any  child  who  is 
found  begging,  or  left  out  in  the  streets 
at  night,  or  living  in  an  immoral  home, 
may  be  brought  before  a  magistrate 
and  committed  by  him  to  an  Industrial 
Home.  An  order  is  made  at  the  same 
time  for  a  weekly  contribution  by  the 


Hungry  Childr&n. 


193 


parent  towards  the  cost  of  the  child's 
maintenance.  It  is  true  that  as  a 
matter  of  fact  only  about  five  per  cent, 
of  this  cost  is  on  the  average  collected 
from  the  parents,  and  magistrates 
sometimes  refuse  on  this  ground  to 
exercise  their  jurisdiction  ;  but  if  the 
parents  escape  the  greater  part  of  the 
expense  they  are  at  any  rate  put  to 
such  trouble  in  avoiding  the  payment, 
— which  is  collected  by  the  police — 
that  few  persons  would  willingly  sub- 
mit to  have  such  an  order  made  against 
them.  One  fact  at  least  is  certain,  as 
compared  with  those  large  private  in- 
stitutions, like  Dr.  Barnardo's,  in  the 
administration  of  which  parental  re- 
sponsibility is  entirely  ignored,  the 
certified  industrial  school  system  mini- 
mises the  demoralising  tendency  of  cha- 
ritable interference  with  family  duties. 
Here  then  is  scope  for  the  exercise 
of  much  benevolent  energy.  But  the 
opportunity  is  only  for  those  who  are 
in  earnest.  When  a  ragged  urchin 
begs  of  yon  in  the  street  it  is  easy  to 
give  him  a  penny,  and  it  is  not  difficult 
to  send  tickets  for  soup  and  coal  to  his 
parents.  You  are  rewarded  for  your 
action,  if  not  by  seeing  any  permanent 
results,  at  any  rate  by  copious  expres- 
sions of  gratitude.  If  on  the  other 
hand  you  give  the  ragamuffin  in  charge, 
his  how^ls  collect  a  crowd  who  upbraid 
you  for  your  cruelty,  and  you  get  no 
thanks  for  the  trouble  and  loss  of  time 
occasioned  by  your  attendance  at  the 
police  court.  But  you  have  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  you  have  been 
the  means  of  diverting  one  life  from  a 
certainty  of  wretchedness  to  a  fair 
possibility  of  honest  labour. 


The  Industrial  Schools  Acts,  it  will 
be  noticed,  are  applicable  only  to  the 
grossest  cases  of  ill  treatment  or  ne- 
glect ;  and  in  view  of  the  difficulty  of 
working   them   satisfactorily,    opinion 
will  be  divided  as  to  the  desirability  of 
their  further   extension.      Meanwhile 
we  have  in  a  statute  passed  two  years 
ago,  and  known  by  the  awkward  title 
of  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to,  and 
Protection  of,  Children  Act,  1889,  a 
further  legislative  attempt  to  visit  the 
sins  of  the  fathers  upon  themselves  to 
the  advantage  of  the  children.     But 
this  Act  catches  only  parents  who  are 
guilty  of  wilful  ill-treatment  or  neglect ; 
and   **  wilful "  misconduct,  in  a  legal 
sense,  is  not  easy  to  prove.     Neglect 
resulting   from   mere    selfishness   and 
carelessness  cannot  be  punished.     The 
question   whether    in    any   particular 
case  of  this  nature  charity  should  step 
in  or  not  is  always  a  difficult  one.    No 
general  rule  can  be  formulated.     The 
circumstances  of  each    case  must    be 
considered   on  their  merits.     And  in 
forming  our  judgment  we   must   not 
forget  that,  if  we  are  endowed  with  the 
average  amount  of  sympathy,  we  are 
strongly  biassed   in   the   direction  of 
helping  the  individual    sufferer  even 
though  in  doing  so  we  may  be  violating 
principle.     The    plain   man   is  apt  to 
think  more  of  immediate  results  which 
he  himself  can  witness,  than  of  the  re- 
mote effect  of  his  actions  which  may 
not  be  felt  by  the  present  generation. 
Let  him  recognise  the  truth,  in  a  new 
sense,  of  the  words — 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 

H.  Clarence  Bourne. 


No.  387. — VOL.  Lxv. 


194 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 


Few  poets  are  of  sufficiently  tough 
and  impenetrable  fibre  as  to  be  able 
with  impunity  to  mix  with  public 
affairs.  Even  though  the  spring  of 
their  inspiration  be  like  the  fountain 
in  the  garden  of  grace  "  drawn  from 
the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain  that 
stands  in  the  distance  yonder,''  that 
stream  is  apt  to  become  sullied  at  the 
very  source  by  the  envious  contact  of 
the  world.  Poets  conscious  of  their 
vocation  have  generally  striven  sedu- 
lously, by  sequestering  their  lives 
somewhat  austerely  from  the  current 
of  affairs,  to  cultivate  the  tranquillity 
and  freshness  on  which  the  purity  of 
their  utterance  depends.  If  it  be  hard 
to  hear  sermons  and  remain  a  Chris- 
tian, it  is  harder  to  mix  much  with 
men  and  remain  an  idealist.  And  if 
this  be  true  of  commerce  in  its  various 
forms,  law,  medicine,  and  even  edu- 
cation, it  seems  to  be  still  more  fatally 
true  of  politics.  Of  course  the  tempta- 
tion of  politics  to  a  philosophical  mind 
is  very  great.  To  be  at  the  centre  of 
the  machine;  to  be  able  perhaps  to 
translate  a  high  thought  into  a  practical 
measure ;  to  be  able  to  make  some 
closer  reconciliation  between  law  and 
morality,  as  the  vertical  sun  draws 
the  shadow  nearer  to  the  feet, — all 
this  to  a  generous  mind  has  an  at- 
traction almost  supreme. 

And  yet  the  strain  is  so  great  that 
few  survive  it.  David, — the  inspired 
bandit,  as  M.  Renan  with  such  fatal 
infelicity  calls  him — was  law-giver, 
general,  king,  and  poet  in  one.  So- 
phocles was  more  than  once  elected 
general,  and  is  reported  to  have  kept 
his  colleagues  in  good  humour  by  the 
charm  of  his  conversation  through  a 
short  but  disagreeable  campaign. 
Dante  was  an  ardent  and  uncom- 
promising revolutionary.  Goethe  was 
a  kind  of  statesman.     Among  our  own 


poets  Spenser  might  perhaps  be  quoted 
as  a  fairly  successful  compromise ;  but 
of  poets  of  the  first  rank  Milton  is  the 
only  one  who  deliberately  took  a  con- 
siderable and  active  part  in  public  life. 

It  is  perhaps  to  Milton's  example, 
and  probably  to  his  advice,  that  we 
owe  the  loss  of  a  great  English  poet. 
It  seems  to  have  been  if  not  at 
Milton's  instigation,  at  any  rate  by 
his  direct  aid  that  Andrew  Marvell 
was  introduced  to  public  life.  The 
acquaintance  began  at  Rome ;  but 
Marvell  was  introduced  into  Milton's 
intimate  society,  as  his  assistant  secre- 
tary, at  a  most  impressionable  age. 
He  had  written  poetry,  dealing  like 
L^ Allegro  and  II  Fenseroso  mainly 
with  country  subjects,  and  was 
inclined  no  doubt  to  hang  on  the 
words  of  the  older  poet  as  on  an 
oracle  of  light  and  truth.  We  can 
imagine  him  piecing  out  his  aspir- 
ations and  day-dreams,  while  the  poet 
of  sterner  stuff,  yet  of  all  men  least 
insensible  to  the  delights  of  congenial 
society,  points  out  to  him  the  more 
excellent  way,  bidding  him  to  abjure 
Amaryllis  for  a  time.  He  has  style, 
despatches  will  give  it  precision; 
knowledge  of  men  and  life  will 
confirm  and  mature  his  mind ;  the 
true  poet  must  win  a  stubborn  virility 
if  he  is  to  gain  the  world.  The 
younger  and  more  delicate  mind 
complies  ;  and  we  lose  a  great  poet, 
Milton  gains  an  assistant  secretary, 
and  the  age  a  somewhat  gross  satirist. 

At  a  time  like  this,  when  with  a 
sense  of  sadness  we  can  point  to  more 
than  one  indifferent  politician  who 
might  have  been  a  capable  writer, 
and  so  very  many  indifferent  writers 
who  could  well  have  been  spared  to 
swell  the  ranks  of  politicians,  we 
may  well  take  the  lesson  of  Andrew 
Marvell  to  heart. 


Atidrew  MarcelL 


195 


The  passion  for  the  country  which 
breathes  through  the  earlier  poems, 
the  free  air  which  ruffles  the  page, 
the  summer  languors,  the  formal 
garden  seen  through  the  casements 
of  the  cool  house,  the  close  scrutiny  of 
woodland  sounds,  such  as  the  harsh 
laughter  of  the  woodpecker,  the 
shrill  insistence  of  the  grasshopper's 
dry  note,  the  luscious  content  of  the 
drowsy,  croaking  frogs,  the  musical 
sweep  of  the  scythe  through  the 
falling  swathe  ;  all  these  are  the  work 
of  no  town-bred  scholar  like  Milton, 
whose  country  poems  are  rather 
visions  seen  through  the  eyes  of  other 
poets,  or  written  as  a  man  might 
transcribe  the  vague  and  inaccurate 
emotions  of  a  landscape  drawn  by 
some  old  uncertain  hand  and  dimmed 
by  smoke  and  time.  Of  course  Mil- 
ton's II  Penseroso  and  L^ Allegro  have 
far  more  value  even  as  country  poems 
than  hundreds  of  more  literal  tran- 
scripts. From  a  literary  point  of  view 
indeed  the  juxtapositions  of  half-a- 
dozen  epithets  alone  would  prove  the 
genius  of  the  writer.  But  there  are 
no  sharp  outlines ;  the  scholar  pauses 
in  his  walk  to  peer  across  the  watered 
flat,  or  raises  his  eyes  from  his  book 
to  see  the  quiver  of  leaves  upon  the 
sunlit  wall ;  he  notes  an  effect  it  may 
be;  but  they  do  not  come  like  trea- 
sures lavished  from  a  secret  storehouse 
of  memory. 

With  Andrew  Marvell  it  is  different, 
though  we  will  show  by  instances  that 
his  observation  was  sometimes  at  fault. 
Where  or  when  this  passion  came  to 
him  we  cannot  tell ;  whether  in  the 
great  walled  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
old  school-house  at  Hull,  where  his 
boyish  years  were  spent ;  at  Cam- 
bridge, where  the  oozy  streams  lapped 
and  green  fens  crawled  almost  into 
the  heart  of  the  town,  where  snipe 
were  shot  and  wild -duck  snared  on  the 
site  of  some  of  its  now  populous  streets ; 
at  Meldreth  perhaps,  where  doubtless 
Bome  antique  kindred  lingered  at  the 
old  manor-house  that  still  bears  his 
patronymic,  "the  Marvells/'  Wher- 
ever  it    was, — and    such    tastes   are 


rarely  formed  in  later  years — the  deli- 
cate observation  of  the  minute  philo- 
sopher side  by  side  with  the  art  of 
intimate  expression  grew  and  bloomed. 

We  see  a  trace  of  that  leaning 
nature,  the  trailing  dependence  of  the 
uneasy  will  of  which  we  have  already 
spoken,  in  a  story  of  his  early  years. 
The  keen-eyed  boy,  with  his  fresh 
colour  and  waving  brown  hair,  was 
thrown  on  the  tumultuous  world  of 
Cambridge,  it  seems,  before  he  was 
thirteen  years  of  age ;  a  strange  medley 
no  doubt, — its  rough  publicity  alone 
saving  it,  as  with  a  dash  of  healthy 
freshness,  from  the  effeminacy  and 
sentimentalism  apt  to  breed  in  more 
sheltered  societies.  The  details  of  the 
story  vary  ;  but  the  boy  certainly  fell 
into  the  hands  of  Jesuits,  who  finally 
induced  him  to  abscond  to  one  of  their 
retreats  in  London,  where,  over  a 
bookseller's  shop,  after  a  long  and 
weary  search,  his  father  found  him  and 
persuaded  him  to  return.  Laborious 
Dr.  Grosart  has  extracted  from  the 
Hull  Records  a  most  curious  letter 
relating  to  this  incident,  asking  for 
advice  from  Andrew  Marvell's  father 
by  a  man  whose  son  has  been  in- 
veigled away  in  similar  circumstances. 

Such  an  escapade  belongs  to  a  mind 
that  must  have  been  ardent  and 
daring  beyond  its  fellows ;  but  it  also 
shows  a  somewhat  shifting  foundation, 
an  imagination  easily  dazzled  and  a 
pliability  of  will  that  cost  us,  we  may 
believe,  a  poet.  After  Cambridge 
came  some  years  of  travel,  which 
afforded  material  for  some  of  his 
poems,  such  as  the  satire  on  Holland, 
of  which  the  cleverness  is  still  ap- 
parent, though  its  elaborate  coarse- 
ness and  pedantic  humour  make  it 
poor  pasture  to  feed  the  mind  upon. 

But  the  period  to  which  we  owe 
almost  all  the  true  gold  among  his 
poems,  is  the  two  years  which  he 
spent  at  Nunappleton  House,  IGSO- 
1652,  as  tutor  to  the  daughter  of  the 
great  Lord  Fairfax,  the  little  Lady 
Mary  Fairfax,  then  twelve  years  old. 
Marvell  was  at  this  time  twenty-nine ; 
and  that  exquisite  relation  which  may 

o  2 


196 


Andrew  Marvell. 


exist  between  a  grown  man,  pure  in 
heart,  and  a  young  girl,  when  dis- 
parity of  fortune  and  circumstance 
forbids  all  thought  of  marriage,  seems 
to  have  been  the  mainspring  of  his 
song.  Such  a  relation  is  half  tender- 
ness which  dissembles  its  passion,  and 
half  worship  which  laughs  itself  away 
in  easy  phrases.  The  lyric  Young 
Love,  which  indubitably  though  not 
confessedly  refers  to  Mary  Fairfax, 
is  one  of  the  sweetest  poems  of  pure 
feeling  in  the  language. 

Common  beauties  stay  fifteen ; 

Such  as  yours  should  swifter  move, 
Whose  fair  blossoms  are  too  green 

Yet  for  lust,  but  not  for  love. 

Love  as  much  the  snowy  lamb, 
Or  the  wanton  kid,  doth  prize  ^ 

As  the  lusty  bull  or  ram, 
For  his  morning  sacrifice. 

Now  then  love  me  ;  Time  may  take 
Thee  before  thy  time  away  ; 

Of  this  need  we'll  virtue  make. 
And  learn  love  before  we  may. 

It  is  delightful  in  this  connection 
to  think  of  the  signet-ring  with  the 
device  of  a  fawn,  which  he  used  in 
early  life  and  may  still  be  seen  on  his 
papers,  as  a  gift  of  his  little  pupil, 
earned  doubtless  by  his  poem  on  the 
Dying  Fawn,  which  is  certainly  an 
episode  of  Lady  Mary's  childhood. 

In  the  group  of  early  poems,  which 
are  worth  all  the  rest  of  Marvell's 
work  put  together,  several  strains 
predominate.  In  the  first  place  there 
is  a  close  observation  of  Nature,  even  a 
grotesque  transcription,  with  which  we 
are  too  often  accustomed  only  to  credit 
later  writers.  For  instance,  in  Damon 
the  Mower  he  writes  : 

The  grasshopper  its  pipe  gives  o'er. 
And  hamstringed  frogs  can  dance  no  more  ; 
But  in  the  brook  the  green  frog  wades, 
And  grasshoppers  seek  out  the  shades. 

The  second  line  of  this  we  take  to 
refer  to  the  condition  to  which  frogs 
are  sometimes  reduced  in  a  season  of 
extreme  drought,  when  the  pools  are 
dry.  Marvell  must  have  seen  a  frog 
with     his     thighs     drawn     and    con- 


tracted from  lack  of  moisture  making 
his  way  slowly  through  the  grass  in 
search  of  a  refreshing  swamp ;  this  is 
certainly  minute  observation,  as  the 
phenomenon  is  a  rare  one.  Again, 
such  a  delicate  couplet  as, 

And  through  the  hazels  thick  espy 
The  hatching  throstle's  shining  eye, 

is  not  the  work  of  a  scholar  who  walks 
a  country  road,  but  of  a  man  who  will 
push  his  way  into  the  copses  in  early 
spring,  and  has  watched  with  delight 
the  timorous  eye  and  the  upturned 
beak  of  the  thrush  sunk  in  her  nest. 
Or  again,  speaking  of  the  dwindled 
summer  stream  running  so  perilously 
clear  after  weeks  of  drought  that  the 
fish  are  languid : 

The  stupid  fishes  hang,  as  plain 
As  flies  in  crystal  overta'en. 

Or  of  the  hayfield  roughly  mown, 
into  which  the  herd  has  been  turned 
to  graze : 

And  what  below  the  scythe  increast, 
Is  pinched  yet  nearer  by  the  beast. 

The  mower's  work  begun  and  ended 
with  the  dews,  in  all  its  charming 
monotony,  seems  to  have  had  a  pecu- 
liar attraction  for  Marvell ;  he  recurs 
to  it  in  more  than  one  poem. 

I  am  the  mower  Damon,  known 
Through  all  the  meadows'I  have  mown  ; 
On  me  the  morn  her  dew  distils 
Before  her  darling  daffodils. 

And  again,  of  the  mowers, 

Who  seem  like  Israelites  to  be 
Walking  on  foot  through  a  green  sea, 
To  them  the  grassy  deeps  divide 
And  crowd  a  lane  to  either  side. 

The  aspects  of  the  country  on 
which  he  dwells  with  deepest  pleasure 
— and  here  lies  the  charm — are  not 
those  of  Nature  in  her  sublimer  or 
more  elated  moods,  but  the  gentler  and 
more  pastoral  elements,  that  are  apt 
to  pass  unnoticed  at  the  time  by  all 
but  the  true  lovers  of  the  quiet  coun- 
try side,  and  crowd  in  upon  the  mind 
when  surfeited  by  the  wilder  glories  of 


A7idrew  Marxell, 


197 


peak  and  precipice,  or  where*  tropical 
luxuriance  side  by  side  with  tropical 
aridity  blinds  and  depresses  the  sense, 
with  the  feeling  that  made  Browning 
cry  from  Florence, 

Oh,  to  be  in  England,  now  that  April's 
there  ! 

Marvell's  lines.  On  the  Hill  and  Grove 
at  BiUborow,  are  an  instance  of  this ; 
there  is  a  certain  fantastic  craving 
after  antithesis  and  strangeness,  it  is 
true,  but  the  spirit  underlies  the 
lines.  The  poem  however  must  be  read 
in  its  entirety  to  gain  the  exact  im- 
pression. 

Agaft^  for  simple  felicity,  what 
could  b^'  more  airily  drawn  than  the 
following  from  The  Gqrden  ? — 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  doth  glide. 
There  like  a  bird  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings. 

Or  this,  from  the  Song  to  celebrate 
the  marriage  of  Lord  Fauconberg  and 
the  Lady  Mary  Cromwell,  of  the  un- 
disturbed dead  of  night  ? — 

The  astrologer's  own  eyes  are  set 
And  even  wolves  the  sheep  forget ; 
Only  this  shepherd  late  and  soon 
Upon  this  hill  outwakes  the  moon. 
Hark  !  how  he  sings  with  sad  delight 
Through  the  clear  and  silent  night. 

Other  poems  such  as  the  Ode  on  tlie 
Drop  qf  Dew  and  the  Nymph  Co^nplain- 
i''ng  for  the  Death  of  her  Favm,  too 
long  to  quote,  are  penetrated  with  the 
same  essence. 

At  the  same  time  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  his  imagery  is  sometimes 
at  fault, —  it  would  be  strange  if  it 
were  not  so ;  he  falls  now  and  then, 
the  wonder  is  how  rarely,  to  a  mere 
literary  conceit.  Thus  the  mower 
Damon  sees  himself  reflected  in  his 
scythe ;  the  fawn  feeds  on  roses  till 
its  lip  "  seems  to  bleed,"  not  with  a 
possibly  lurking  thorn,  but  with  the 
hue  of  its  pasturage.  With  Hobbinol 
and  Tomalin  for  the  names  of  swain 
and  nymph  unreality  is  apt  to  grow. 


When  the  garden  is  compared  to  a 
fortress  and  its  scents  to  a  salvo  of 
artillery, — 

Well  shot,  3^6  firemen  !    0  how  sweet 
And  round  your  equal  fires  do  meet, — 

and. 

Then  in  some  fiowers  beloved  hut 
•Each  bee  as  sentinel  is  shut, 
And  sleeps  so  too, — but  if  once  stirred. 
She  runs  you  through,  nor  asks  the  word, — 

here  we  are  in  the  region  of  false 
tradition  and  mere  literary  hearsay. 
The  poem  of  Eyes  and  Tea/rs,  again  (so 
strangely  admired  by  Archbishop 
Trench),  is  little  more  than  a  string 
of  conceits ;  and  when  in  Mourning 
we  hear  that 

She  courts  herself  in  amorous  rain. 
Herself  both  Danae  and  the  shower  ; 

when  we  are  introduced  to  Indian 
divers  who  plunge  in  the  tears  and 
can  find  no  bottom,  we  think  of 
Macaulay's  Tea/rs  of  Sensibility,  and 
Crashaw's  fearful  lines  on  the  Magda- 
lene's tears, — 

Two  walking  baths,  two  weeping  motions, 
Portable  aud  compendious  oceans. 

At  the  same  time  Mar  veil's  poems 
are  singularly  free  as  a  rule  from  this 
strain  of  aft'ectation.  He  has  none 
of  the  morbidity  that  often  passes 
for  refinement.  The  free  air,  the 
wood-paths,  the  full  heat  of  the  sum- 
mer sun, — this  is  his  scenery  ;  we  are 
not  brought  into  contact  with  the 
bones  beneath  the  rose-bush,  the 
splintered  sun-dial,  and  the  stagnant 
pool.  His  pulses  throb  with  ardent 
life  and  have  none  of  the  "  inexplica- 
ble faintness "  of  a  deathlier  school. 
What  would  not  Crashaw  have  had  to 
say  of  the  Nuns  of  Apjjleton  if  he  had 
been  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  lighted 
on  them  1     But  Marvell  writes  : 

Our  orient  breaths  perfumed  are 
With  incense  of  incessant  prayer. 
And  holy  water  of  our  tears 
Most  strangely  our  complexion  clears, 
Not  tears  of  Grief,  but  such  as  those 
With  which  calm  Pleasure  overflows, 


108 


Andrew  Marvel/. 


And  passing  by  a  sweet  and  natural 
transition  to  his  little  pupil,  the  young 
Recluse  of  Nunappleton, — 

I  see  the  angels  in  a  crown 
On  you  the  lilies  showering  down, 
And  round  about  you  glory  breaks 
That  something  more  than  human  speaks. 

The  poems  contain  within  them- 
selves the  germ  of  the  later  growth  of 
satire  in  the  shape  of  caustic  touches 
of  humour,  as  well  as  a  certain  austere 
philosophy  that  is  apt  to  peer  behind 
the  superficial  veil  of  circumstance, 
yet  without  dreary  introspection. 
There  is  a  Dialogue  between  Soul  and 
Body  which  deals  with  the  duality  of 
human  nature  which  has  been  the 
despair  of  all  philosophers  and  the 
painful  axiom  of  all  religious  teachers. 
Marvell  makes  the  Soul  say  : 

Constrained  not  onlv  to  endure 
Diseases,  but  what's  worse,  the  cure, 
And  ready  oft  the  port  to  gain. 
Am  shipwrecked  into  health  again . 

In  the  same  connection  in  The  Coronet, 
an  allegory  of  the  Ideal  and  the  Real, 
he  says : 

Alas  !  I  find  the  serpent  old, 
Twining  in  his  speckled  breast 
About  the  flowers  disguised  doth  fold. 
With  wreaths  of  fame  and  interest. 

Much  of  his  philosophy  however 
has  not  the  same  vitality,  born  of 
personal  struggle  and  discomfiture, 
but  is  a  mere  echo  of  stoical  and 
pagan  views  of  life  and  its  vanities 
drawn  from  Horace  and  Seneca,  who 
seem  to  have  been  favourite  authors. 
Such  a  sentiment  as  the  following, 
from  Applet07i  House — 

But  he  superfluously  spread, 
Demands  more  room  alive  than  dead  ; 
Wliat  need  of  all  this  marble  crust, 
To  impart  the  wanton  mole  of  dust  ? — 

and  from  T/te  Coy  Mistress, — 

The  grave's  a  fine  and  private  place. 
But  none,  niethinks,  do  there  embrace — 

are  mere  pagan  commonplaces,   how- 
ever daintily  expressed. 

But  there  is  a  poem,  an  idyll  in  the 


form  of  a  dialogue  between  Clorinda 
and  Damon,  which  seems  to  contain  a 
distinct,  philosophical  motive.  Idylls 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word  are  not 
remarkable  for  having  a  moral ;  or  if 
they  have  one  it  may  be  said  that  it 
is  generally  bad,  and  is  apt  to  defend 
the  enjoyment  of  an  hour  against 
the  conscience  of  centuries ;  but  in 
Clorinda  and  Damon,  the  woman  is 
the  tempter  and  Damon  is  obdurate. 
She  invites  him  to  her  cave,  and  de- 
scribes its  pleasures. 

Clo.  a  fountain's  liquid  bell 

Tinkles  within  the  concave  shell. 
Da.    Might  a  soul    bathe   there  and  be 
clean, 

Or  slake  its  drought  ? 
Clo.  What  is't  you  mean  ? 

Da.    Clorinda,      pastures,      caves,      and 
springs, 

These  once  had  been  enticing  things. 
Clo.  And  what  late  change  ? 
Da.  The  other  day 

Pan  met  me. 
Clo.  What  did  great  Pan  say  ? 

Da.   Words  that  transcend  poor  shepherds 
skill. 

This  poem  seems  to  us  a  distinct  at- 
tempt to  make  of  the  sickly  furniture 
of  the  idyll  a  vehicle  for  the  teaching 
of  religious  truth.  Is  it  fanciful  to 
read  in  it  a  poetical  rendering  of  the 
doctrine  of  conversion,  the  change  that 
may  come  to  a  careless  and  sensuous 
nature  by  being  suddenly  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  Divine  light  ?  It  might 
even  refer  to  some  religious  experience 
of  Marvell's  own  :  Milton's  **  mighty 
Pan,"  typifying  the  Redeemer,  is  in  all 
probability  the  original. 

The  work  then  on  which  Marvell's 
fame  chiefly  subsists, — with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  poem  which  belongs  to 
a  different  class,  and  will  be  discussed 
later,  the  Horatian  Ode — may  be  said 
to  belong  to  the  regions  of  nature  and 
feeling  and  to  have  anticipated  in  a 
remarkable  degree  the  minute  observa- 
tion of  natural  phenomena  character- 
istic of  a  modern  school,  even  to  a 
certain  straining  after  unusual,  almost 
bizarre  effects.  ^  The  writers  of  that 
date,  indeed,  as  Green  points  out,  seem. 


Andrevj  3Iarvell. 


199 


to  have  become  suddenly  and  unac- 
countably modern,  a  fact  which  we  are 
apt  to  overlook  owing  to  the  frigid 
reaction  of  the  school  of  Pope.  What- 
ever the  faults  of  Marvell's  poems  may 
be,  and  they  are  patent  to  all,  they 
have  a  strain  of  originality.  He  does 
not  seem  to  imitate,  he  does  not  even 
follow  the  lines  of  other  poets  ;  never, 
— except  in  a  scattered  instance  or 
two,  where  there  is  a  faint  echo  of 
Milton, — does  he  recall  or  suggest  that 
he  has  a  master.  At  the  same  time 
the  poems  are  so  short  and  slight  that 
any  criticism  upon  them  is  apt  to  take 
the  form  of  a  wish  that  the  same  hand 
had  written  more,  and  grown  old  in  his 
art.  There  is  a  monotony  for  instance 
about  their  subjects,  like  the  song  of 
a  bird  recurring  again  and  again  to 
the  same  phrase ;  there  is  an  uncer- 
tainty, an  incompleteness  not  so  much 
of  expression  as  of  arrangement,  a 
tendency  to  diverge  and  digress  in  an 
unconcerned  and  vagabond  fashion. 
There  are  stanzas,  even  long  passages, 
which  a  lover  of  proportion  such  as 
Gray  (who  excised  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  stanzas  of  the  Elegy  because 
it  made  too  long  a  parenthesis)  would 
never  have  spared.  ^.It  is  the  work 
of  a  young  man  trying  his  wings, 
and  though  perhaps  not  flying  quite  so 
directly  and  professionally  to  his  end, 
revelling  in  the  new-found  powers  with 
a  delicious  ecstasy  which  excuses  what 
is  vague  and  prolix ;  especially  when 
over  all  is  shed  that  subtle  precious 
quality  which  makes  a  sketch  from  one 
hand  so  unutterably  more  interesting 
than  a  finished  j.ucture  from  another, 
— which  will  arrest  with  a  few  com- 
monplace phrases,  lightly  touched  by 
certain  players,  the  attention  which 
has  wandered  throughout  a  whole 
sonata.  The  strength  of  his  style  lies 
in  its  unexpectedness.  You  are  ar- 
rested by  what  has  been  well  called  a 
"  predestined "  epithet,  not  a  mere 
otiose  addition,  but  a  word  which 
turns  a  noun  into  a  picture ;  the 
"hook-shouldered"  hill  "to  abrupter 
greatness  thrust,"  "  the  sugar's  uncor- 
rupting  oil,"  "the  vigilant  patrol  of 


stars,"  "  the  squatted  thorns,"  "  the 
oranges  like  golden  lamps  in  a  green 
night,"  **  the  garden's  fragrant  inno- 
cence,"— these  are  but  a  few  random 
instances  of  a  tendency  that  meets  you 
in  every  poem.  Marvell  had  in  fact 
the  qualities  of  a  consummate  artist, 
and  only  needed  to  repress  his  luxuri- 
ance and  to  confine  his  expansiveness. 
In  his  own  words. 

Height  with  a  certain  grace  doth  bend, 
But  low  things  clownishly  ascend. 

Before  we  pass  on  to  discuss  the 
satires  we  may  be  allowed  to  say  a  few 
words  on  a  class  of  poems  largely  re- 
presented in  Marvell's  works,  which 
may  be  generally  called  Panegyric. 

Quite  alone  among  these, — indeed, 
it  can  be  classed  with  no  other  poem 
in  the  language — stands  the  Horatian 
Ode  on  Cromwell's  return  from  Ire- 
land. Mr.  Lowell  said  of  it  that  as  a 
testimony  to  C^i-omwell's  character  it 
was  worth  mote  than  all  Carjyle's 
biographies ;  he  \night  without  exag- 
geration have  said^iih^me  of  its  liter- 
ary qualities.  It  has  force  with  grace, 
originality  with  charm,  in  every 
stanza.  Perhaps  almost  the  first 
quality  that  would  strike  a  reader  of 
it  for  the  first  time  is  its  quaint ness ; 
but  further  study  creates  no  reaction 
against  this  in  the  mind, — the  usual 
sequel  to  poems  which  depend  on 
quaintness  for  effect.  But  when  Mr. 
Lowell  goes  on  to  say  that  the  poem 
shows  the  difference  between  grief  that 
thinks  of  its  object  and  grief  that 
thinks  of  its  rhymes  (referring  to 
Dryden),  he  is  not  so  happy.  The  pre- 
eminent quality  of  the  poem  is  its 
art ;  and  its  singular  charm  is  the  fact 
that  it  succeeds,  in  spite  of  being  arti- 
ficial, in  moving  and  touching  the 
springs  of  feeling  in  an  extraordinary 
degree.  It  is  a  unique  piece  in  the 
collection,  the  one  instance  where 
Marvell's  undoubted  genius  burned 
steadily  through  a  whole  poem.  Here 
he  flies  penna  metuente  solvi.  It  is  in 
completeness  more  than  in  quality  that 
it  is  superior  to  all  his  other  work,  but 
in   quality   too   it   has    that    lurking 


200 


Aiidrew  Mm^velL 


divinity  that  cannot  be   analysed   or 
imitated. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  force  of  angry  heaven's  flame, 

And  if  we  would  speak  true, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due 
Who  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
If e  lived  reserved  and  austere, 

(As  though  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  ihe  bergamot,) 
Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  Time, 

And  cast  the  kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould. 

This  is  the  apotheosis  of  tyrants  ]  it 
is  the  bloom  of  republicanism  just 
flowering  into  despotism.  But  the 
Ode  is  no  party  utterance ;  the  often 
quoted  lines  on  the  death  of  Charles, 
in  their  grave  yet  passionate 
dignity,  might  have  been  written  by 
the  most  ardent  of  Royalists,  and  have 
often  done  service  on  their  side.  But 
indeed  the  whole  Ode  is  above  party, 
and  looks  clearly  into  the  heart  and 
motives  of  man.  It  moves  from  end 
to  end  with  the  solemn  beat  of  its 
singular  metre,  its  majestic  cadences, 
without  self-consciousness  or  senti- 
ment, austere  but  not  frigid.  His 
other  panegyrics  are  but  little  known, 
though  the  awkward  and  ugly  lines  on 
Milton  have  passed  into  anthologies, 
owing  to  their  magnificent  exordium, 
**  When  I  beheld  the  poet  blind  yet 
old."  But  no  one  can  pretend  that  such 
lines  as  these  are  anything  but  prosaic 
and  ridiculous   to   the    last   degree — 

Thou  hast  not  missed  one  thought  that 

could  be  fit. 
And  all  that  was  improper  dost  omit, 
At  once  delight  and  horror  on  us  seize. 
Thou  sing'st  with  so   much  gravity  and 

ease 

though  the  unfortunate  alteration  in 
the  meaning  of  the  word  improper 
makes  them  even  more  ridiculous  than 
they  are.  The  poems  on  the  First 
Anniversary  of  the  Government  of  the 
Lord  Protector,  on  the  Death  of  the 
Lord  Protector,  and  on  Richard  Crom- 
well are  melancholy  reading  though 
they  have  some  sonorous  lines. 


And  as  the  angel  of  our  Commonweal 
Troubling  the  waters,  yearly  mak'st  them 
heal, 

may  pass  as  an  epigram.  But  that  a 
man  of  penetrating  judgment  and  in- 
dependence of  opinion  should  descend 
to  a  vein  of  odious  genealogical  com- 
pliment, and  speak  of  the  succeeding 
of 

Rainbow  to  storm,  Richard  to  Oliver, 
and  add  that 
A  Cromwell  in  an  hour  a  prince  will  grow, 

by  way  of  apology  for  the  obvious 
deficiencies  of  his  new  Protector, 
makes  us  very  melancholy  indeed. 
Flattery  is  of  course  a  slough  in  which 
many  poets  have  waHowed ;  and  a 
little  grovelling  was  held  to  be  even 
more  commendable  in  poets  in  that 
earlier  age ;  but  we  see  the  pinion 
beginning  to  droop,  and  the  bright  eye 
growing  sickly  and  dull.  Milton's 
poisonous  advice  is  already  at  work. 

But  we  must  pass  through  a  more 
humiliating  epoch  still.  The  poet  of 
spicy  gardens  and  sequestered  fields 
seen  through  the  haze  of  dawn  is  gone, 
not  like  the  Scholar  Gipsy  to  the  high 
lonely  wood  or  the  deserted  lasher,  but 
is  stepped  down  to  jostle  with  the 
foulest  and  most  venal  of  mankind. 
He  becomes  a  satirist,  and  a  satirist 
of  the  coarsest  kind.  His  pages  are 
crowded  with  filthy  pictures  and 
revolting  images  ;  the  leaves  cannot 
be  turned  over  so  quickly  but  some 
lewd  epithet  or  vile  realism  prints 
itself  on  the  eye.  His  apologists  have 
said  that  it  is  nothing  but  the  over- 
flowing indignation  of  a  noble  mind 
when  confronted  with  the  hideous 
vices  of  a  corrupt  court  and  nation  ; 
that  this  deep-seated  wrath  is  but  an 
indication  of  the  fervid  idealistic 
nature  of  the  man  ;  that  the  generous 
fire  that  warmed  in  the  poems, 
consumed  in  the  satires ;  that  the 
true  moralist  does  not  condone  but 
condemn.  To  this  we  would  answer 
that  it  is  just  conceivable  a  satirist 
being     primarily     occupied     by     an 


Andrew  'MarvelL 


201 


^immense  moral  indignatioD,  and  no 
doubt  that  indignation  must  bear  a 
certain  part  in  all  satires ;  but  it  is 
not  the  attitude  of  a  hopeful  or 
generous  soul.  The  satirist  is  after  all 
only  destructive  ;  he  has  not  learned 
the  lesson  that  the  only  cure  for  old 
vices  is  new  enthusiasms.  Nor  if  a 
satirist  is  betrayed  into  the  grossest 
and  most  unnecessary  realism  can  we 
acquit  him  entirely  of  all  enjoyment 
of  his  subject.  It  is  impossible  to 
treat  of  vice  in  the  intimate  and 
detailed  manner  in  which  Marvell 
treats  of  it  without  having,  if  no 
practical  acquaintance  with  your 
subject,  at  least  a  considerable  con- 
ventional acquaintance  with  it,  and  a 
large  literary  knowledge  of  the 
handling  of  similar  topics  ;  and  when 
Dr.  Grosart  goes  so  far  as  to  call 
Marvell  an  essentially  pure-minded 
man,  or  words  to  that  effect,  we  think 
he  would  find  a  contradiction  on 
almost  every  page  of  the  satires. 

They  were  undoubtedly  popular. 
Charles  II.  was  greatly  amused  by 
them;  and  their  reputation  lasted  as 
late  as  Swift,  who  spoke  of  Marvell's 
genius  as  preeminently  indicated  by 
the  fact  that  though  the  controversies 
were  forgotten,  the  satires  still  held 
the  mind.  He  started  with  a  natural 
equipment.  That  he  was  humorous 
his  earlier  poems  show,  as  when  for  in- 
stance he  makes  Daphne  say  to  Chloe  : 

Rather  I  away  will  pine, 

In  a  manly  stubbornness, 
Than  be  fatted  up  express, 

For  the  cannibal  to  dine. 

And  he  shows,  too,  in  his  earlier 
poems,  much  of  the  weightier  and 
more  dignified  art  of  statement  that 
makes  the  true  satirist's  work  often 
read  better  in  quotations  than  entire ; 
as  for  instance — 

Wilt  thou  all  the  glory  have, 
That  war  or  peace  commend  ] 

Half  the  world  shall  be  thy  slave, 
The  other  half  thy  friend. 

But  belonging  as  they  do  to  the 
period  of  melancholy  decadence  of 
Marveirs  art,  we  are  not  inclined  to 


go  at  any  length  into  the  question  of 
the  satires.  We  see  genius  struggling 
like  Laocoon  in  the  grasp  of  a  power 
whose  virulence  he  did  not  measure, 
and  to  whom  sooner  or  later  the 
increasing  languor  must  yield.  Of 
course  there  are  notable  passages 
scattered  throughout  them.  In  Last 
Instructions  to  a  Painter,  the  passage 
beginning,  "Paint  last  the  king,  and 
a  dead  shade  of  night,"  where  Charles 
II.  sees  in  a  vision  the  shape  of 
Charles  I.  and  Henry  VIII.  threaten- 
ing him  with  the  consequences  of 
unsympathetic  despotism  and  the 
pursuit  of  sensual  passion,  has  a 
tragic  horror  and  dignity  of  a  peculiar 
kind ;  and  the  following  specimen 
from  TJie  Cliaracter  of  Holland  gives 
on  the  whole  a  good  specimen  of  the 
strength  and  weakness  of  the  author  : 

Holland,  that  scarce  deserves  the  name  of 

land, 
As  but   the  off- scouring  of   the  British 

sand. 
And  so  much  earth  as  was  contributed 
By  English  pilots  when  they  heaved  the 

lead, 
Or  what  by  the  Ocean's  slow  alluvion  fell 
Of  shipwrecked  cockle  or  the  mussel-shell, 
This  undigested  vomit  of  the  sea, 
Fell  to  the  Dutch  by  just  propriety. 

Clever  beyond  question ;  every  couplet 
is  an  undeniable  epigram,  lucid, 
well-digested,  elaborate ;  pointed,  yet 
finikin  withal, — it  is  easy  to  find  a 
string  of  epithets  for  it.  But  to  what 
purpose  is  this  waste?  To  see  this 
felicity  spent  on  such  slight  and 
intemperate  work  is  bitterness  itself ; 
such  writing  has,  it  must  be  confessed, 
every  qualification  for  pleasing  except 
the  power  to  please. 

Of  the  remainder  of  Marvell's  life, 
there  is  little  more  to  be  said.  He 
was  private  tutor  at  Eton  to  a  Master 
Dutton,  a  relative  of  Cromwell's,  and 
wrote  a  delightful  letter  about  him  to 
the  Protector ;  but  the  serious  business 
of  his  later  life  was  Parliament.  Of 
his  political  consistency  we  cannot 
form  a  high  idea.  He  seems  as  we 
should  expect  him  to  have  been,  a 
Royalist  at  heart  and  by  sympathy  all 
along  ;  "  Tis  God-like  good,"  he  wrote. 


202 


Andrew  Marvel L 


"to  save  a  falling  king."  Yet  he 
was  not  ashamed  to  accept  Crom- 
well as  the  angel  of  the  Commonweal, 
and  to  write  in  fulsome  praise  of  Pro- 
tector Richard  ;  and  his  bond  of  union 
with  the  extreme  Puritans  was  his 
intense  hatred  of  prelacy  and  bishops 
which  is  constantly  coming  up.  In 
The  Loyal  Scot  he  writes  : 

The  fiiendlv  loadstone  has  not  more  com- 

bined, 
Than  Bishops  cramped  the  commerce  of 

mankind. 

And  in  The  Bermvdas  he  classes  the 
fury  of  the  elements  with  "  Prelates' 
rage  "  as  the  natural  enemies  of  the 
human  race.  Such  was  not  the  inter- 
meddling in  affairs  that  Milton  had 
recommended.  To  fiddle,  while  Rome 
burnt,  upon  the  almost  divine  attri- 
butes of  her  successive  rulers,  this  was 
not  the  austere  storage  of  song  which 
Milton  himself  practised. 

Andrew  Marvell  was  for  many  years 
member  for  Hull,  with  his  expenses 
paid  by  the  Corporation.  His  im- 
mense, minute,  and  elaborate  corre- 
spondence with  his  constituents,  in 
which  he  gave  an  exact  account  of  the 
progress  of  public  business,  remains  to 
do  him  credit  as  a  sagacious  and  con- 
scientious man.  But  it  cannot  be  cer- 
tainly imputed  to  any  higher  motive 
than  to  stand  well  with  his  employers. 
He  was  provided  with  the  means  of 
livelihood,  he  was  in  a  position  of 
trust  and  dignity,  and  he  may  well  be 
excused  for  wishing  to  retain  it.  In 
spite  of  certain  mysterious  absences 
on  the  Continent,  and  a  long  period 
during  which  he  absented  himself  from 
the  House  in  the  suite  of  an  embassy 
to  Russia,  he  preserved  their  confidence 
for  eighteen  years  and  died  at  his  post. 
He  spoke  but  little  in  the  House,  and 
his  reported  speeches  add  but  little  to 
his  reputation.  One  curious  incident 
is  related  in  the  Journals.  In  going 
to  his  place  he  stumbled  over  Sir 
Philip  Harcourt's  foot,  and  an  inter- 
change of  blows  in  a  humorous  and 
friendly  fashion  with  hand  and  hat, 
took  place.    At  the  close  of  the  sitting 


the  Speaker  animadverted  on  this, 
Marvell  being  absent ;  and  a  brief  de- 
bate took  place  the  next  day  on  the 
subject,  Marvell  speaking  with  some 
warmth  of  the  Speaker's  grave  inter- 
ference with  what  appears  to  have 
been  nothing  more  than  a  piece  of 
childish  horse-play.  "What  passed 
(said  Mr.  Marvell)  was  through  great 
acquaintance  and  familiarity  between 
us.  He  never  gave  him  an  affront 
nor  intended  him  any.  But  the  Speaker 
cast  a  severe  reflection  upon  him  yester- 
day when  he  was  out  of  the  House,  and 
he  hopes  that  as  the  Speaker  keeps  us 
in  order,  he  will  keep  himself  in  order 
for  the  future." 

\j  For  one  thing  Marvell  deserves  high 
credit ;  in  a  corrupt  age,  he  kept  his 
hands  clean,  refusing  even  when  hard 
pressed  for  money  a  gift  of  .£1,000 
proffered  him  by  Danby,  the  Lord- 
Treasurer,  "  in  his  garret,"  as  a  kind  of 
A  retainer  on  the  royal  side.  In  Hartley 
1  Coleridge's  life  of  Marvell  this  is  told 
inasilly,  theatrical  way,  unworthy,  and 
not  even  characteristic  of  the  man. 
"Marvell,"  he  says,  "looking  at  the 
paper  (an  order  on  the  Treasury  which 
had  been  slipped  into  his  hand)  calls 
after  the  Treasurer,  *  My  lord,  I  re- 
quest another  moment.'  They  went 
up  again  to  the  garret ;  and  Jack  the 
servant-boy  was  called.  *  Jack,  child, 
what  had   I    for   dinner    yesterday?* 

*  Don't  you  remember,  sirl  You  had 
the  little  shoulder  of  mutton  that  you 
ordered  me  to  bring  from  a  woman  in 
the  market.'  'Very  right,  child. 
What   have    I    for    dinner    to-day  f 

*  Don't  you  know,  sir,  that  you  bid 
me  lay  by  the  blade-bone  to  broil  1 ' 
'  'Tis  so  ;  very  right,  child  ;  go  away/ 

*  My  lord  do  you  hear  that  ?  Andrew 
Marvell's  dinner  is  provided.  There's 
your  piece  of  paper ;  I  want  it  not. 
I  know  the  sort  of  kindness  you  in- 
tended. I  live  here  to  serve  my  con- 
stituents :  the  Ministry  may  seek  men 
for  their  purpose, — I  am  not  one.' " 
But  with  the  exception  of  perhaps  the 
concluding  words,  there  is  no  reason  to 
think  the  story  authentic,  though  the 
fact  is  unquestioned. 


Andrew  Ma'i^elL 


203 


Over  Prince  Rupert  Marvell  seems 
to  have  had  a  great  influence,  so  much 
so  that,  when  the  Prince  spoke  in 
Parliament,  it  was  commonly  said : 
"  He  has  been  with  his  tutor.'* 

Marvell  died  suddenly  in  1678,  not 
without  suspicion  of  poisoning ;  but  it 
seems  to  have  been  rather  due  to  the 
treatment  he  underwent  at  the  hands 
of  an  old-fashioned  practitioner,  who 
had  a  prejudice  against  the  use  of 
Peruvian  bark  which  would  probably 
have  saved  Marvell's  life.  Upon  his 
death  a  widow  starts  into  existence, 
Mary  Marvell  by  name,  so  unexpect- 
edly and  with  such  a  total  absence  of 
previous  allusion  that  it  has  been 
doubted  whether  her  marriage  was 
not  all  a  fiction.  But  Dr.  Grosart 
points  out  that  she  would  never  have 
administered  his  estate  had  there  been 
any  reason  to  doubt  the  validity  of 
her  claims ;  and  it  was  under  her 
auspices  that  the  Poems  were  first 
given  to  the  world  a  few  years  after 
his  death,  in  a  folio  which  is  now  a 
rare  and  coveted  book. 

Of  his  Prose  Works  we  have  no  in- 
tention of  speaking;  they  may  be 
characterised  as  prose  satires  for  the 
most  part,  or  political  pamphlets.  The 
Rehea/raal  Tranaprosed  and  Tlie  Divine 
in  Mode  are  peculiarly  distasteful  ex- 
amples of  a  kind  of  controversy  then 
much  in  vogue.  They  are  answers  to 
publications,  and  to  the  ordinary  reader 
contrive  to  be  elaborate  without  being 
artistic,  personal  without  being  hu- 
morous, and  digressive  without  being 
entertaining ;  in  short,  they  combine 
the  characteristics  of  tedium,  dulness, 
and  scurrility  to  a  perfectly  phe- 
nomenal degree.  Of  course  this  is 
a  matter  of  taste.  No  one  but  a  clever 
man  could  have  written  them,  and  no 
one  but  an  intelligent  man  could  have 
edited  them ;  but  we  confess  to  think- 
ing that  a  conspiracy  of  silence  would 
have  done  more  credit  both  to  editor 
and  author.  As  compared  with  the 
poems  themselves,  the  prose  works 
fill  many  volumes  ;  and  any  reader  of 


ordinary  perseverance  lias  ample  oppor- 
tunities of  convincing  himself  of  An- 
drew Marveirs  powers  of  expression, 
his  high-spirited  beginning,  the  deli- 
cate ideals,  the  sequestered  ambitions 
of  his  youth,  and  their  lamentable 
decline. 

It  is  a  perilous  investment  to  aspire 
to  be  a  poet, — periculosce  plenum  opus 
alece.  If  you  succeed,  to  have  the 
world  present  and  to  come  at  your 
feet,  to  win  the  reluctant  admiration 
even  of  the  Philistine ;  to  snuff  the 
incense  of  adoration  on  the  one  hand, 
and  on  the  other  to  feel  yourself  a 
member  of  the  choir  invisible,  the 
sweet  and  solemn  company  of  poets ; 
to  own  within  yourself  the  ministry 
of  hope  and  height.  And  one  step 
below  success,  to  be  laughed  at  or 
softly  pitied  as  the  dreamer  of  in- 
effectual dreams,  the  strummer  of 
impotent  music;  to  be  despised  alike 
by  the  successful  and  the  unsuccess- 
ful; the  world  if  you  win, — worse 
than  nothing  if  you  fail. 

Mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non    di,    non    homines,    non    concessere 
columiioc. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  respectable 
mediocrity  among  poets.  Be  supreme 
or  contemptible. 

And  yet  we  cannot  but  grieve 
when  we  see  a  poet  over  whose  feet 
the  stream  has  flowed,  turn  back 
from  the  brink  and  make  the  great 
denial  ;  whether  from  the  secret 
consciousness  of  aridity,  the  drying 
of  the  fount  of  song,  or  from  the  im- 
perious temptations  of  the  busy,  ordi- 
nary world  we  cannot  say.  Somehow 
we  have  lost  our  poet.     It  seems  that. 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  u.s, 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat. 

And  the  singer  of  an  April  mood,  who 
might  have  bloomed  year  after  yeai* 
in  young  and  ardent  hearts,  is  buried 
in  the  dust  of  politics,  in  the  valley 
of  dead  bones. 


204 


HARVEST. 

[Respectfully  dedicated  to  our  law-makers  in  India,  who,  by  giving  to  the  soldier- 
peasants  of  the  Punjab  the  novel  right  of  alienating  their  ancestral  holdings,  are 
fast  throwing  the  land,  and  with  it  the  balance  of  power,  into  the  hands  of  money- 
grubbers  ;  thus  reducing  those  who  stood  by  us  in  our  time  of  trouble  to  the 
position  of  serfs.] 


^^ Ail  Daughter  of  thy  grand- 
mother," muttered  old  Jaimul  gently, 
as  one  of  his  yoke  wavered,  making 
the  handle  waver  also.  The  offender 
was  a  barren  buffalo  doomed  tempo- 
rarily to  the  plough  in  the  hopes  of  in- 
ducing her  to  look  more  favourably  on 
the  first  duty  of  the  female  sex,  so  she 
started  beneath  the  unaccustomed  goad. 

^^  Aril  sister,  fret  not,"  muttered 
Jaimul  again,  turning  from  obscure 
abuse  to  palpable  flattery,  as  being 
more  likely  to  gain  his  object ;  and 
once  more  the  tilled  soil  glided  be- 
tween his  feet,  traced  straight  by  his 
steady  hand.  In  that  vast  expanse  of 
bare  brown  field  left  by  or  waiting 
for  the  plough,  each  new  furrow  seemed 
a  fresh  diameter  of  the  earth-circle 
which  lay  set  in  the  bare  blue  horizon 
— a  circle  centring  always  on  Jaimul 
and  his  plough.  A  brown  dot  for  the 
buffalo,  a  white  dot  for  the  ox,  a  brown 
and  white  dot  for  the  old  peasant  with 
his  lanky  brown  limbs,  and  straight 
white  drapery,  his  brown  face,  and  long 
white  beard.  Brown,  and  white,  and 
blue,  with  the  promise  of  harvest  some 
time  if  the  blue  was  kind.  That  was  all 
Jaimul  knew  or  cared.  The  empire 
beyond  hanging  on  the  hope  of  harvest 
lay  far  from  his  simple  imaginings ; 
and  yet  he,  the  old  peasant  with  his 
steady  hand  of  patient  control,  held  the 
reins  of  government  over  how  many 
million  square  miles  1  That  is  the  pro- 
vince of  the  Blue  Book,  and  Jaimul' s 
blue  book  was  the  sky. 

*'  Bitter  blue  sky  with  no  fleck  of  a  cloud, 
Ho  !  brother    ox !    make    the    plough 
speed. 
[Ai!  soorin  !  straight  I  say  !] 


Tis  the    usurers'    bellies    wax    fat   and 
proud 
When  poor  folk  are  in  need." 

The  rude  guttural  chant  following 
these  silent,  earth-deadened  footsteps 
was  the  only  sound  breaking  the  still- 
ness of  the  wide  plain. 

**Sky   dappled   grey    like    a    partridge's 

breast. 

Ho !    brother    ox !    drive  the    plough 
deep. 
[Steady,  my  sister,  steady  !] 
The  peasants  work,  but  the  usurers  rest 

Till  harvest's  ripe  to  reap." 

So  on  and  on  interminably,  the 
chant  and  the  furrow,  the  furrow  and 
the  chant,  both  bringing  the  same 
refrain  of  flattery  and  abuse,  the  same 
antithesis.  The  peasant  and  the 
usurer  face  to  face  in  conflict,  and 
above  them  both  the  fateful  sky, 
changeless  or  changeful  as  it  chooses. 

The  sun  climbed  up  and  up  till  the 
blue  hardened  into  brass,  and  the 
mere  thought  of  rain  seemed  lost  in 
the  blaze  of  light.  Yet  Jaimul  as  he 
finally  unhitched  his  plough  chanted 
away  in  serene  confidence — 

"  Merry  drops  slanting  from  west  to  east, 
Ho  !  brother  ox  !  drive  home  the  wain  ; 

'Tis  the  usurer  s  belly  that  gets  the  least 
When  Eam  sends  poor  folk  rain." 

The  home  whither  he  drove  the  lag- 
ging yoke  was  but  a  whitish-brown 
mound  on  the  bare  earth-circle,  not 
far  removed  from  an  ant-hill  to  alien 
eyes  ;  for  all  that,  home  to  the  utter- 
most. Civilisation,  education,  culture 
could  produce  none  better.  A  home 
bright  with  the  welcome  of  women, 
the  laughter  of  children.     Old  Elishnu, 


Harvest, 


205 


mother  of  them  all,  wielding  a  relent- 
less despotism  tempered  by  profound 
afEection  over  every  one  save  her  aged 
husband.  Purtabi,  widow  of  the 
eldest  son,  but  saved  from  degradation 
in  this  life  and  damnation  in  the 
next  by  the  tall  lad  whose  grasp  had 
already  closed  on  his  grandfather's 
plough-handle.  Taradevi,  whose  sol- 
dier-husband was  away  guarding  some 
scientific  or  unscienti.ic  frontier  while 
she  reared  up,  in  the  ancestral  home, 
a  tribe  of  sturdy  youngsters  to  follow 
in  his  footsteps.  Fighting  and  plough- 
ing, ploughing  and  lighting  ;  here  was 
life  epitomised  for  these  long-limbed, 
grave-eyed  peasants  whose  tongues 
never  faltered  over  the  shibboleth 
which  showed  their  claim  to  courage.^ 
The  home  itself  lay  bare  for  the 
most  part  to  the  blue  sky  ;  only  a  few 
shallow  outhouses,  half  room,  half 
verandah,  giving  shelter  from  noon- 
day heat  or  winter  frosts.  The  rest 
was  courtyard,  serving  amply  for  all 
the  needs  of  the  household.  In  one 
corner  a  pile  of  golden  chaff  ready  for 
the  milch  kine  which  came  in  to  be  fed 
from  the  mud  mangers  ranged  against 
the  wall ;  in  another  a  heap  of  fuel,  and 
the  tall  bee-hive-like  mud  receptacles 
for  grain.  On  every  side  stores  of 
something  brought  into  existence  by 
the  plough — corn-cobs  for  husking, 
millet-stalks  for  the  cattle,  cotton 
awaiting  deft  fingers  and  the  lac- 
quered spinning-wheels  which  stand, 
cocked  on  end,  against  the  wall.  Tara- 
devi sits  on  the  white  sheet  spread  be- 
neath the  quern,  while  her  eldest 
daughter,  a  girl  about  ten  years  of  age, 
lends  slight  aid  to  the  revolving  stones 
whence  the  coarse  flour  falls  ready  for 
the  mid-day  meal.  Purtabi,  down  by  the 
grain-bunkers,  rakes  more  wheat  from 
the  funnel-like  opening  into  her  flat  bas- 
ket, and  as  she  rises  flings  a  hand- 
ful to  the  pigeons  sidling  on  the  wall. 

^  Ronjeet  Singh  never  enlisted  a  man  who, 
in  counting  up  to  thirty  said  pach-is  for 
five  and  twenty,  but  those  \>  lio  said  yunj-is 
were  passed.  I  n  other  words,  the  patois  was 
made  a  test  of  wliether  the  recruit  belonged 
to  the  Trana-Sutlej  tribes  or  the  Cis-Sutlej. 


A  fluttering  of  white  wings,  a  glint  of 
sunlight  on  opaline  necks,  while  the 
children  cease  playing  to  watch  their 
favourites  tumble  and  strut  over  the 
feast.  Even  old  Kishnu  looks  up 
from  her  preparation  of  curds  without 
a  word  of  warning  against  waste ;  for 
to  be  short  of  grain  is  beyond  her  ex- 
perience. Wherefore  was  the  usurer 
brought  into  the  world  save  to  supply 
grain  in  advance  when  the*  blue  sky 
sided  with  capital  against  labour  for  a 
dry  year  or  two  1 

**The  land  is  ready,"  said  old 
Jaimul  over  his  pipe.  **  'Tis  time  for 
the  seed*— therefore  I  will  seek  Anant 
Ea.m  at '  sunset  and  set  my  seal  to  the 
paper.'- 

That  was  how  the  transaction  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  accustomed  eyes. 
Seed  grain  in  exchange  for  yet  another 
seal  to  be  set  in  the  long  row  which  he 
and  his  forbears  had  planted  regularly, 
year  by  year,  in  the  usurer's  field  of  ac- 
counts. As  for  the  harvests  of  such 
sowings  1  Bah  !  there  never  were  any. 
A  real  crop  of  solid,  hard,  red  wheat 
was  worth  them  all,. and  that  came 
sometimes — might  come  any  time  if  the 
blue  sky  was  kind.  He  knew  nothing 
of  Statutes  of  Limitation  or  judg- 
ments of  the  Chief  Court,  and  his  in- 
herited wisdom  drew  a  broad  line  of 
demarcation  between  paper  and  plain 
facts. 

Anant  Ram  the  usurer,  however,  was 
of  another  school.  A  comparatively 
young  man,  he  had  brought  into  his 
father's  ancestral  business  the  modern 
selfishness  which  laughs  to  scorn  all 
considerations  save  that  for  Number 
One.  He  and  his  forbears  had  made 
much  out  of  Jaimul  and  his  fellows  ; 
but  was  that  any  reason  against  mak- 
ing more,  if  more  was  to  be  made  1 

And  more  tjoas  indubitably  to  be  made 
if  Jaimul  and  his  kind  were  reduced  to 
the  level  of  labourers.  That  handful 
of  grain,  for  instance,  thrown  so  reck- 
lessly to  the  pigeons — that  might  be 
the  usurer's,  and  so  might  the  plenty 
which  went  to  build  up  the  long,  strong 
limbs  of  Taradevi's  tribe  of  young  sol- 
diers ;  idle  young  scamps  who  thrashed 


206 


Harvest, 


the  usurer's  boys  as  diligently  during 
play-time  as  they  were  beaten  by 
those  clever  weedy  lads  during  school- 
hours. 

**  Seed  grain,"  he  echoed  sulkily  to 
the  old  peasant's  calm  demand.  **  Sure 
last  harvest  I  left  thee  more  wheat 
than  most  men  in  my  place  would  have 
done  ;  for  the  account  grows,  O  Jaimul  ! 
and  the  land  is  mortgaged  to  the  utter- 
most." 

"  Mayhap  !  but  it  must  be  sown  for 
all  that,  else  thou  wilt  suffer  as  much 
as  I.  So  quit  idle  words  and  give  the 
seed  as  thou  hast  since  time  began. 
What  do  I  know  of  accounts  who  can 
neither  read,  nor  write?  Tis  thy 
business,  not  mine." 

"  'Tis  not  my  business  to  give  ought 
for  nought- 


11 


For  nought,"  broke  in  Jaimul  with 
the  hoarse  chuckle  of  the  peasant 
availing  himself  of  a  time-worn  joke. 
**Thou  canst  add  that  nought  to  thy 
figures,  O  bunniah-ji  !  ^  So  bring  the 
paper  and  have  done  with  words.  If 
Ram  sends  rain — and  the  omens  are 
auspicious — thou  canst  take  all  but 
food  and  jewels  for  the  women. " 

"  Report  saith  thy  house  is  rich 
enough  in  them  already,"  suggested 
the  usurer  after  a  panse. 

Jaimul' s  big  white  eyebrows  met 
over  his  broad  nose.  What  then, 
hitnniah-ji  ^  "  he  asked  haughtily. 

Anant  Ram  made  haste  to  change 
the  subject,  whereat  Jaimul,  smiling 
softly,  told  the  usurer  that  maybe  more 
jewels  would  be  needed  with  next  seed 
grain,  since  if  the  auguries  were  once 
more  propitious,  the  women  purposed 
bringing  home  his  grandson's  bride 
ere  another  year  had  sped.  The 
usui'er  smiled  an  evil  smile. 

**  Set  thy  seal  to  this  also,"  he  said, 
when  the  seed  grain  had  been  mea- 
sured j  *'  the  rules  demand  it.  A  plague, 
say  I,  on  all  these  new-fangled  papers 
the  sahih-logue  ask  of  us.  Look  you  I 
how  I  have  to  pay  for  the  stamps  and 
fees  ;  and  then  you  old  ones  say  we  new 

^  Bunniah,  a  merchant.  Bunniah-ji  signi- 
fies, as  Shakespeare  would  have  said,  Sir 
Merchant. 


ones  are  extortionate.  We  must  live, 
O  z^mindar-ji  /  ^  even  as  thou  livest." 

"  Live  !  "  retorted  the  old  man  with 
another  chuckle.  "  Wherefore  not ! 
The  land  is  good  enough  for  you  and 
for  me.  There  is  no  fault  in  the  land  I  " 

"  Ay  !  it  is  good  enough  for  me,  and 
for  you,"  echoed  the  usurer  slowly.  He 
inverted  the  pronouns — that  was  all. 

So  Jaimul,  as  he  had  done  ever  since 
he  could  remember,  walked  over  the  bare 
plain  with  noiseless  feet,  and  watched 
the  sun  flash  on  the  golden  grain  as  it 
flew  from  his  thin  brown  fingers.  And 
once  again  the  guttural  chant  kept 
time  to  his  silent  steps. 

"  Wheat  grains  grow  to  wheat, 
And  the  seed  of  a  tare  to  tare  ; 

Who  knows  if  man's  soul  will  meet 
Man's  body  to  wear. 

*'  Great  Eam,  grant  me  life 
From  the  grain  of  a  golden  deed  ; 

Sink  not  my  soul  in  the  strife 
To  wake  as  a  weed." 

After  that  his  work  in  the  fields  was 
over.  Only  at  sunrise  and  sunset  his 
tall,  gaunt  figure  stood  out  against  the 
circling  sky  as  he  wandered  through 
the  sprouting  wheat  waiting  for  the 
rain  which  never  came.  Not  for  the 
first  time  in  his  long  life  of  waiting,  so 
he  took  the  want  calmly,  soberly. 

"It  is  a  bad  year,"  he  said,  "  the 
next  will  be  better.  For  the  sake  of 
the  boy's  marriage  I  would  it  had  been 
otherwise,  but  Anant  Ram  must  ad- 
vance the  money.  It  is  his  business." 
Whereat  Jodha,  the  youngest  son,  better 
versed  than  his  father  in  new  ways, 
shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "  Have  a 
care  of  Anant,  O  haha-ji,'^^  he  suggested 
with  diffidence.  "  Folk  say  he  is 
sharper  than  ever  his  father  was." 

"  Tis  a  trick  sons  have,  or  think  they 
have,  nowadays,"  retorted  old  Jaimul 
wrathf ully.  "  Anant  can  wait  for 
payment  as  his  fathers  waited.  GU)d 
knows  the  interest  is  enough  to  stand 
a  dry  season  or  two." 

In  truth  fifty  per  cent.,  and  payment 

-  Zcmindar-jiy  Sir  Squire. 
3  BcibUj  as  a  term  of  familiarity,  is  applied 
indifferently  to  young  and  old. 


Harvest. 


207 


in  kind  at  the  lowest  harvest  rates, 
with  a  free  hand  in  regard  to  the 
cooking  of  accounts  should  have  satis- 
fied even  a  usurer's  soul.  But  Anant 
Kam  wanted  that  handful  of  grain  for 
the  pigeons  and  the  youngsters'  mess 
of  pottage.  He  wanted  the  land  in 
fact,  and  so  the  long  row  of  dibbled-in 
seals  dotting  the  unending  scroll  of 
accounts  began  to  sprout  and  bear 
fruit.  Drought  gave  them  life,  while 
it  brought  death  to  many  a  better 
seed. 

"  Not  give  the  money  for  the  boy's 
wedding ! "  shrilled  old  Kishnu  six 
months  after  in  high  displeasure.  "  Is 
the  man  mad  %  When  the  fields  are  the 
best  in  all  the  country  side." 

"  True  enough,  O  !  wife  ;  but  he 
says  the  value  under  these  new  rules 
the  aahih-logue  make  is  gone  already. 
That  he  must  wait  another  harvest,  or 
have  a  new  seal  of  me." 

"  Is  that  all,  O  !  Jaimul  Singh,  and 
thou  causing  my  liver  to  melt  with 
fear  ?  A  seal — what  is  a  seal  or  two 
more  against  the  son  of  thy  son's 
marriage  ? " 

"  'Tis  a  new  seal,"  muttered  Jaimul 
uneasily,  "  and  I  like  not  new  things. 
Perhaps  'twere  better  to  wait  the 
harvest." 

"  Wait  the  harvest  and  lose  the 
auspicious  time  the  pv/rohit^  hath  found 
written  in  the  stars  ?  Ai,  Taradevi  I 
Ai  I  Purtabi !  there  is  to  be  no  mar- 
riage, hark  you  !  The  boy's  strength 
is  to  go  for  nought,  and  the  bride  is 
to  languish  alone  because  the  father 
of  his  father  is  afraid  of  a  usurer ! 
Ha^,  Hah  !  " 

The  women  wept  the  easy  tears  of 
their  race,  mingled  with  half-real, 
half-pretended  fears  lest  the  Great 
Ones  might  resent  such  disregard  of 
their  good  omens  ;  the  old  man  sitting 
silent  meanwhile,  for  there  is  no 
tyranny  like  the  tyranny  of  those  we 
love.  Despite  all  this,  his  native 
shrewdness  held  his  tenderness  in 
check.     They  would   get   over  it,   he 

^  FurohU,  a  spiritual  teacher,  a  sage  ;  an- 
swering in  some  respects  to  the  Red  Indian's 
Medicine-man. 


told  himself,  and  a  good  harvest  would 
do  wonders  —  ay  !  even  the  wonders 
which  the  purohit  was  always  finding 
in  the  skies.  Trust  a  good  fee  for 
that !  So  he  hardened  his  heart,  went 
back  to  Anant  Ram,  and  told  him 
that  he  had  decided  on  postponing  the 
marriage.  The  usurer's  face  fell.  To 
be  so  near  the  seal  which  would  make 
it  possible  for  him  to  foreclose  the 
mortgages,  and  yet  to  fail !  He  had 
counted  on  this  marriage  for  years ; 
the  blue  sky  itself  had  fought  for  him 
so  far,  and  now — what  if  the  coming 
harvest  were  a  bumper  ? 

"  But  I  will  seal  for  the  seed  grain," 
said  old  Jaimul ;  **  I  have  done  that 
before  and  I  will  do  it  again — we 
know  that  bargain  of  old." 

Anant  Ram  closed  his  pen-tray  with 
a  snap.  "  There  is  no  seed  grain  for 
you,  baba-ji,  this  year  either,"  he 
replied  calmly. 

Ten  days  afterwards,  Kishnu,  Purtabi, 
and  Taradevi  were  bustling  about  the 
courtyard  with  the  untiring  energy 
which  fills  the  Indian  woman  over 
the  mere  thought  of  a  wedding,  and 
Jaimul,  out  in  the  fields,  was  chanting 
as  he  scattered  the  grain  into  the 
furrows — 

"  Wrinkles  and  seams  and  sears 
On  the  face  of  our  mother  earth  ; 

There  are  ever  sorrow  and  tears 
At  the  gates  of  birth." 

The  mere  thought  of  the  land  lying 
fallow  had  been  too  much  for  him  ;  so 
safe  in  the  usurer's  strong-box  lay  a 
deed  with  the  old  man's  seal  sitting 
cheek  by  jowl  beside  Anant  Ram's 
brand-new  English  signature.  And 
Jaimul  knew,  in  a  vague,  unrestful 
way,  that  this  harvest  differed  from 
other  harvests,  in  that  more  depended 
upon  it.  So  he  wandered  oftener  than 
ever  over  the  brown  expanse  of  field 
where  a  flush  of  green  showed  that 
Mother  Earth  had  done  her  part  and 
was  waiting  for  Heaven  to  take  up  the 
task. 

The  wedding  fire-balloons  rose  from 
the  courtyard,  and  drifted  away  to 
form  constellations  in  the  cloudless 
sky ;    the    sound   of    wedding   drums 


208 


Harvest, 


and  pipes  disturbed  the  stillness  of 
the  starlit  nights,  and  still  day  by 
day  the  green  shoots  grew  lighter  and 
lighter  in  colour  because  the  rain  came 
not.  Then  suddenly,  like  a  man's 
hand,  a  little  cloud !  "  Merry  drops 
slanting  from  west  to  the  east;" 
merrier  by  far  to  Jaimul's  ears  than 
all  the  marriage  music  was  that  low 
rumble  from  the  canopy  of  purple 
cloud,  and  the  discordant  scream  of 
the  peacock  telling  of  the  storm  to 
come.  Then  in  the  evening,  when  the 
setting  sun  could  only  send  a  bar  of 
pale  primrose  light  between  the  solid 
purple  and  the  solid  brown,  what  joy 
to  pick  a  dry-shod  way  along  the 
boundary  ridges  and  see  the  promise 
of  harvest  doubled  by  the  reflection  of 
each  tender  green  spikelet  in  the  flooded 
fields  !  The  night  settled  down  dark, 
heavenly  dark,  with  a  fine  spray  of 
steady  rain  in  the  old,  weather-beaten 
face,  as  it  set  itself  towards  home. 

The  blue  sky  was  on  the  side  of 
labour  this  time,  and,  during  the  next 
month  or  so,  Taradevi's  young  soldiers 
made  mud  pies,  and  crowed  more 
lustily  than  ever  over  the  hunniaNs 
boys. 

Then  the  silvery  beard  began  to 
show  in  the  wheat,  and  old  Jaimul 
laughed  aloud  in  the  fulness  of  his 
heart. 

**  That  is  an  end  of  the  new  seal," 
he  said  boastfully,  as  he  smoked  his 
pipe  in  the  village  square.  "It  is  a 
poor  man's  harvest,  and  no  mistake." 

But  Anant  E,am  was  silent.  The 
April  sun  had  given  some  of  its  sun- 
shine to  the  yellowing  crops  before 
he  spoke. 

"  I  can  wait  no  longer  for  my  money, 

0  baba-ji !  "  he  said  ;  "  the  three  years 
are  nigh  over,  and  I  must  defend 
myself." 

"  What  three  years  1 "  asked  Jaimul, 
in  perplexity. 

"The  three  years  during  which  I 
can  claim  my  own  according  to  the 
sahib-logue^ 8  rule.     You  must  pay,  or 

1  must  sue." 

"  Pay  before  harvest !  What  are 
these  fool's  words  ?     Of  course  I  will 


pay  in  due  time  ;  hath  not  great  Earn 
sent  me  rain  to  wash  out  the  old 
writing?" 

"  But  what  of  the  new  one,  baborji  9 
— the  cash  lent  on  permission  to  fore- 
close the  mortgages  ? " 

"  If  the  harvest  failed — if  it  failed," 
protested  Jaimul,  quickly.  "  And  I 
knew  it  could  not  fail.  The  stars  said 
so,  and  great  Bam  would  not  have 
it  so." 

"  That  is  old-world  talk  ! "  sneered 
Anant.  "  We  do  not  put  that  sort  of 
thing  in  the  bond.  You  sealed  it,  and 
I  must  sue." 

"What  good  to  sue  ere  harvest? 
What  money  have  1 1  But  I  will  pay 
good  grain  when  it  comes,  and  the 
paper  can  grow  as  before." 

Anant  Bam  sniggered. 

"What  good,  O  baba-ji?  Why,  the 
land  will  be  mine,  and  I  can  take,  not 
what  you  give  me,  but  what  I  choose. 
For  the  labourer  his  hire,  and  the  rest 
for  me." 

"  Thou  art  mad  !  "  cried  Jaimul,  but 
he  went  back  to  his  fields  with  a  great 
fear  at  his  heart — a  fear  which  sent 
him  again  to  the  usurer's  ere  many 
days  were  over. 

"Here  are  my  house's  jewels,"  he 
said  briefly,  "  and  the  mare  thou  hast 
coveted  these  two  years.  Take  them, 
and  write  off  my  debt  till  harvest." 

Anant  Ram  smiled  again. 

"It  shall  be  part  payment  of  the 
acknowledged  claim,"  he  said;  "let 
the  courts  decide  on  the  rest." 

"After  the  harvest?" 

"  Ay,  after  the  harvest ;  in  consider- 
ation of  the  jewels." 

Anant  Bam  kept  his  word,  and  the 
fields  were  shorn  of  their  crop  ere  the 
summons  to  attend  the  District  Court 
was  brought  to  the  old  peasant. 

"  By  the  Great  Spirit  who  judges 
all  it  is  a  lie  !  "  That  was  all  he  could 
say  as  the  long,  carefully-woven  tissue 
of  fraud  and  cunning  blinded  even  the 
eyes  of  a  justice  biassed  in  his  favour. 
The  records  of  our  Indian  law-courts 
teem  with  such  cases — cases  where 
even  equity  can  do  nothing  against 
the  evidence  of   pen  and  paper.     No 


Harvest, 


209: 


need  to  detail  the  strands  which  formed 
the  net.  The  long  array  of  seals  had 
borne  fruit  at  last,  fiftyfold,  sixtyfold, 
a  hundredfold  ;  a  goodly  harvest  for  the 
usurer. 

"  Look  not  so  glum,  friend," 
smiled  Anant  Ram,  as  they  pushed  old 
Jaimul  from  the  court  at  last,  dazed 
but  still  vehemently  protesting.  "Thou 
and  Jodha  thy  son  shall  till  the  land 
as  ever,  seeing  thou  art  skilled  in  such 
work,  but  there  shall  be  no  idlers  ;  and 
the  land,  mark  you,  is  mine,  not  yours." 

A  sudden  gleam  of  furious  hate 
sprang  to  the  strong  old  face,  but  died 
away  as  quickly  as  it  came. 

"Thou  liest,"  said  Jaimul ;  "  I  will 
appeal.  The  land  is  mine.  It  hath 
been  mine  and  my  fathers*  under  the 
king's  pleasure  since  time  began. 
Kings,  ay,  and  queens,  for  that  matter, 
are  not  fools,  to  give  good  land  to  the 
hunniah' aheWY .  Can  a.bunniah  plough *?" 

Yet  as  he  sat  all  day  about  the 
court-house  steps  awaiting  some  legal 
detail  or  other,  doubt  even  of  his  own 
incredulity  came  over  him.  He  had 
often  heard  of  similar  misfortunes  to 
his  fellows,  but  somehow  the  possi- 
bility of  such  evil  appearing  in  his 
own  life  had  never  entered  his  brain. 
And  what  would  Kishnu  say — after  all 
these  years,  these  long  years  of  content? 

The  moon  gathering  light  as  the  sun 
set  shone  full  on  the  road,  as  the  old 
man,  with  downcast  head,  made  his 
way  across  the  level  plain  to  the 
mud  hovel  which  had  been  a  true 
home  to  him  and  his  for  centuries. 
His  empty  hands  hung  at  his  sides, 
and  the  fingers  twitched  nervously  as 
if  seeking  something.  On  either  side 
the  bare  stubble,  stretching  away  from 
the  track  which  led  deviously  to  the 
scarce  discernible  hamlets  here  and 
there.  Not  a.  soul  in  sight,  but  every 
now  and  again  a  glimmer  of  light 
showing  where  some  one  was  watching 
the  heaps  of  new  threshed  grain  upon 
the  threshing-floors. 

And  then  a  straighter  thread  of 
path  leading  right  upon  his  own  fields 
and  the  village  beyond.  What  was 
that  ?    A  man  riding  before  him.    The 

No.  387.— VOL.  Lxv. 


blood  leapt  through  the  old  veins,  and 
the  old  hands  gripped  in  upon  them- 
selves. So  he — that  liar  riding  ahead 
— was  to  have  the  land,  was  he  ? 
Riding  the  mare  too,  while  he, 
Jaimul,  came  behind  afoot, — yet  for  all 
that  gaining  steadily  with  long  swing- 
ing stride  on  the  figure  ahead.  A 
white  figure  on  a  white  horse  like 
death ;  or  was  the  avenger  behind 
beneath  the  lank  folds  of  drapery 
which  fluttered  round  the  walker  ? 

The  land  !  No  !  He  should  never 
have  the  land.  How  could  he  'i  The 
very  idea  was  absurd.  Jaimul,  think- 
ing thus,  held  his  head  erect  and  his 
hands  relaxed  their  grip.  He  was 
close  on  the  rider  now,  and  just  before 
him,  clear  in  the  moonlight,  rose  the 
boundary  mark  of  his  fields — a  loose 
pile  of  sun-baked  clods,  hardened  by 
many  a  dry  year  of  famine  to  the 
endurance  of  stone.  Beside  it,  the 
shallow  whence  they  had  been  dug, 
showing  a  gleam  of  water  still  held  in 
the  stiff  clay.  The  mare  paused,  strain- 
ing at  the  bridle  for  a  drink,  and 
Jaimul  almost  at  her  heels  paused 
also,  involuntarily,  mechanically. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  thus,  a 
silent  white  group  in  the  moonlight, 
then  the  figure  on  the  horse  slipped  to 
the  ground  and  moved  a  step  forward. 
Only  one  step,  but  that  was  within 
the  boundary.  Then,  above  the  even 
wheeze  of  the  thirsty  beast,  rose  a  low 
chuckle  as  the  usurer  stooped  for  a 
handful  of  soil  and  let  it  glide  through 
his  fingers. 

"It  is  good  ground  !  Ay,  Ay — 
none  better." 

They  were  his  last  words.  In  fierce 
passion  of  love,  hate,  jealousy,  and 
protection  old  Jaimul  closed  on  his 
enemy,  and  found  something  to  grip 
with  his  steady  old  hands.  Not  the 
plough-handle  this  time,  but  a  throat, 
a  warm  living  throat  where  you  could 
feel  the  blood  swelling  in  the  veins  be- 
neath your  fingers.  Down  almost 
without  a  struggle,  the  old  face  above 
the  young  one,  the  lank  knee  upon 
the  broad  body.  And  now  quick  I  for 
something  to  slay  withal,  ere  age  tired 


210 


Harvest, 


in  its  contest  with  youth  and  strength. 
There,  ready  since  all  time,  stood  the 
landmark,  and  one  clod  after  another 
snatched  from  it  fell  on  the  upturned 
face  with  a  dull  thud.  Fell  again  and 
again,  crashed  and  broke  to  crumbling 
soil.  Good  soil !  Ay  !  none  better  ! 
Wheat  might  grow  in  it  and  give 
increase  fortyfold,  sixtyfold,  ay,  a 
hundredfold.  Again,  again,  and  yet 
again,  with  dull  insistence  till  there 
was  a  shuddering  sigh  and  then 
silence.  Jaimul  stood  up  quivering 
from  the  task  and  looked  over  his 
fields.  They  were  at  least  free  from 
that  thing  at  his  feet ;  for  what 
part  in  this  world's  harvest  could 
belong  to  the  ghastly  figure  with  its 
face  beaten  to  a  jelly,  which  lay  staring 
up  into  the  overarching  sky  1  So  far, 
at  any  rate,  the  business  was  settled 
for  ever,  and  in  so  short  a  time  that 
the  mare  had  scarcely  slaked  her 
thirst  and  still  stood  with  head  down, 
the  water  dripping  from  her  muzzle. 
The  thing  would  never  ride  her  again 
either.  Half-involuntarily  he  stepped 
to  her  side  and  loosened  the  girth. 

"  Ari  I  sister,"  he  said  aloud,  "  thou 
hast  had  enough.     Go  home." 

The  docile  beast  obeyed  his  well- 
known  voice,  and  as  her  echoing  amble 
died  away  Jaimul  looked  at  his  blood- 
stained hands  and  then  at  the  form- 
less face  at  his  feet.  There  was  no 
home  for  him,  and  yet  he  was  not 
sorry,  or  ashamed,  or  frightened  ;  only 
dazed  at  the  hurry  of  his  own  act. 
Such  things  had  to  be  done  sometimes 
when  folk  were  unjust.  They  would 
hang  him  for  it,  of  course,  but  he  had 
at  least  made  his  protest,  and  done 
his  deed  as  good  men  and  true 
should  do  when  the  time  came.  So  he 
left  the  horror  staring  up  into  the  sky 
and  made  his  way  to  the  threshing- 
floor,  which  lay'  right  in  the  middle  of 
his  fields.  How  white  the  great  heaps 
of  yellow  corn  showed  in  the  moon- 
light, and  how  large !  His  heart  leapt 
with  a  fierce  joy  at  the  sight.  Here  was 
harvest  indeed  !  Some  one  lay  asleep 
upon  the  biggest  pile,  and  his  stern 
old  face  relaxed  into  a  smile  as,  stoop- 


ing over  the  careless  sentinel,  he  found 
it  was  his  grandson.  The  boy  would 
watch  better  as  he  grew  older,  thought 
Jaimul  as  he  drew  his  cotton  plaid 
gently  over  the  smooth  round  limbs 
outlined  among  the  yielding  grain, 
lest  the  envious  moon  might  covet 
their  promise  of  beauty. 

*^  Son  of  my  son  !  Son  of  my  son  ! " 
he  murmured  over  and  over  again 
as  he  sat  down  to  watch  out  the 
night  beside  his  corn  for  the  last 
time.  Yes,  for  the  last  time!  At 
dawn  the  deed  would  be  discovered ; 
they  would  take  him,  and  he  would 
not  deny  his  own  handiwork. 
Why  should  he?  The  midnight  air 
of  May  was  hot  as  a  furnace,  and  as 
he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  forehead 
it  mingled  with  the  dust  and  blood 
upon  his  hands.  He  looked  at  them 
with  a  ciu-ious  smile  before  he  lay 
back  among  the  corn.  Many  a  night 
he  had  watched  the  slow  stars  wheel- 
ing to  meet  the  morn,  but  never  by  a 
fairer  harvest  than  this. 

The  boy  at  his  side  stirred  in  his 
sleep.  "  Son  of  my  son  !  Son  of  my 
son ! "  came  the  low  murmur  ag0.in. 
Ay !  and  his  son  after  him  again,  if 
the  women  said  true.  It  had  always 
been  so.  Father  and  son,  father  and 
son,  father — and  son — for  ever, — and 
ever, — and  ever. 

So,  lulled  by  the  familiar  thought, 
the  old  man  fell  asleep  beside  the  boy, 
and  the  whole  bare  expanse  of  earth 
and  sky  seemed  empty  save  for  them. 
No  !  there  was  something  else  surely. 
Down  on  the  hard  white  threshing- 
floor — was  that  a  branch  or  a  fragment 
of  rope?  Neither,  for  it  moved 
deviously  hither  and  thither,  raising 
a  hooded  head  now  and  again  as  if 
seeking  something ;  for  all  its  twists 
and  turns  bearing  steadily  towards 
the  sleepers  ;  past  the  boy,  making  him 
shift  uneasily  as  the  cold  coil  touched 
his  arms :  swifter  now  as  it  drew 
nearer  the  scent  till  it  found  what  it 
sought  upon  the  old  man's  hands.^ 

^  Snakes  are  said  to  be  attracted  by  the 
scent  of  blood,  as  they  are  undoubtedly  by 
that  of  milk. 


Harvest. 


211 


"-4rt,  sister  !  straight,  I  say, 
straight !  "  murmured  the  old  plough- 
man in  his  sleep  as  his  grip  strength- 
ened over  something  that  wavered  in 
his  steady  clasp.  Was  that  the  prick 
of  the  goad?  Sure  if  it  bit  so  deep 
upon  the  sister's  hide  no  wonder  she 
started.  He  must  keep  his  grip  for 
men's  throats  when  sleep  was  over — 
when  this  great  sleep  was  over. 

The  slow  stars  wheeled,  and  when 
the  morn  brought  Justice,  it  found  old 
Jaimul  dead  among  his  corn  and 
left  him  there.  But  the  women  washed 
the  stains  of  blood  and  sweat  mingled 
with  soil  and  seed  grains  from  his 
hands,  before  the  wreath  of  smoke 
from    his    funeral    pyre    rose    up    to 


make  a  white  cloud  no  bigger  than  a 
man's  hand  upon  the  bitter  blue  sky  ; 
a  cloud  that  brought  gladness  to  no 
heart. 

The  usurer's  boys,  it  is  true,  forced 
the  utmost  from  the  land,  and 
sent  all  save  bare  sustenance  across 
the  seas;  but  the  home  guided  by 
Jaimul's  unswerving  hand  was  gone, 
and  Taradevi's  tribe  of  budding  sol- 
diers  drifted  away  to  learn  the  law- 
lessness  born  of  change.  Perhaps  the 
yellow  English  gold  which  came  into 
the  country  in  return  for  the  red 
Indian  wheat  more  than  paid  for  these 
trivial  losses.  Perhaps  it  did  not. 
That  is  a  question  which  the  next 
Mutiny  must  settle. 


p  2 


212 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  CHAMPAGNE. 


A  PEW  years  ago  M.  Gaston  Chandon, 
whose  name  cannot  but  awaken  plea- 
surable memories  in  many  minds, 
initiated  a  literary  competition  to  do 
honour  to  the  wine  of  which  his  firm 
have  been  such  distinguished  producers. 
There  were  more  than  eleven  hundred 
candidates  throughout  the  Republic. 
The  judges  were  called  upon  to  read 
sonnets,  satires,  elegies,  ballads,  and 
laudatory  pieces  of  prose  by  the  score, 
and  also  a  tragedy  in  five  acts, — all 
assuming  to  be  in  praise  of  champagne, 
"  the  most  aristocratic  wine  in  the  uni- 
verse." The  competitors  themselves 
were  as  v.aried  in  their  stations  of 
life  as  the  fruits  of  their  literary 
efforts.  One  cannot  marvel  that  there 
were  many  wine-merchants  among 
them.  But  ladies  of  high  rank,  parish 
priests,  and  schoolboys,  also  tried  their 
genius  upon  so  alluring  a  theme.  They 
could  hardly  have  had  one  more  fit  to 
inspire  them,  especially  if  they  remem- 
bered, like  good  patriots,  Voltaire's 
sparkling  allusion  to  it : 

De  ce  vin  frais  I'ecume  petillante 
De  nos  Fran§ais  est  I'image  brillante. 

This  parallel  has  much  truth  in  it. 
We  are  not  concerned  to  say  if  it  be 
wholly  a  complimentary  one.  But  the 
average  Frenchman  is  well  content  to 
be  thought  a  lively  and  amiable  gentle- 
man, and  it  will  not,  therefore,  pain 
him  to  be  reminded  that  **body"  is 
not  the  quality  in  which  champagne 
most  excels. 

The  other  day  I  found  myself  in 
Epernay  somewhat  late  in  the  evening. 
It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  Autumn 
Manoeuvres,  and  the  place  was  full  of 
troops.  For  bedroom  accommodation 
I  had  to  choose  between  the  stables  and 
a  little  hole  of  a  room  which  looked 
down  upon  the  stables,  and  smelt  as 
sweet  as  if  ten  miry  steeds  had  been 


washed  and  stalled  in  it.  The  corridors 
of  the  hotel  resounded  with  the  martial 
clank  of  swords,  and  their  owners 
seemed  in  the  humour  to  slight  civilians 
as  beings  quite  beneath  their  notice.  I 
could  not,  in  short,  have  come  into 
Champagne-land  at  a  worse  opportu- 
nity. But  still  later  in  the  evening, 
when  I  had  dined  and  drunk  some  very 
ordinary  red  champagne,  I  congratu- 
lated myself  that  I  had  arrived  at  this 
conjuncture.  There  were  notices  upon 
the  walls  inviting  the  good  citizens  of 
Epernay  to  attend  a  concert  offered  to 
them  by  M.  Chandon.  And  attend  it 
they  did  by  thousands.  It  was  a 
chilly  night  of  early  autumn,  with  a 
heavy  dew  in  the  air.  But  in  spite  of 
this,  old  men  and  women  from  the 
vicinity,  with  quaint  puckered  faces, 
were  to  be  seen  sitting  side  by  side 
with  the  elite  of  the  town,  while  youths 
and  children  lay  at  full  length  or  rolled 
about  the  grass  in  extreme  enjoyment 
of  the  great  champagne-merchant's 
aesthetic  treat.  Among  much  else  the 
programme  included  the  Russian  hymn, 
a  choice  morsel  from  Rossini,  the 
Ma/rseillaise  and  La  Foire  d^  Epernay, 
The  people  were  unmistakably  happy. 
It  was  clear  that  the  cellars  beneath 
our  feet,  and  their  precious  contents, 
are  a  blessing  to  this  bright  red-roofed 
town  on  the  chalk  slopes  overlooking 
the  green  valley  of  the  Marne. 

The  next  day  I  walked  to  Rheims 
through  vineyards  with  magic  names 
on  the  stones  which  divided  section 
from  section.  It  was  an  enchanting 
forenoon,  with  a  blue  sky  and  a  slum- 
berous breeze  from  the  hills.  Men  and 
women  were  at  work  among  the  vines, 
and  their  blouses  and  gowns  matched 
well  with  the  verdure.  The  hot  sun 
had  already  licked  up  the  dew,  and  the 
soil  was  in  hard  nodules.  A  month 
later  the  grapes  would  be  ripe.     The 


In  the  Land  of  Champagne. 


218 


traditional  lore  of  that  venerable 
manual  of  the  vinegrower,  La  Maison 
Eitstique,  is  still  held  in  regard  in 
Champagne.  Dew,  damp,  hoar  frost, 
and  April  showers  keep  the  labourer 
aloof  from  the  vineyards  except 
during  the  harvest.  Then,  however,  a 
certain  humidity  is  desirable.  **  You 
must,"  says  this  respected  treatise, 
"  try  not  to  pluck  except  on  days  with 
a  heavy  dew,  and,  in  warm  seasons, 
after  a  shower.  This  moisture  gives 
the  grapes  an  azure  bloom  outside,  and 
within  ,;a  coolness  which  keeps  them 
from  heating,  A  foggy  day  is  some- 
thing to  be  glad  of.  The  plucking  be- 
gins half  an  hour  after  sunrise,  and  if 
the  day  is  cloudless,  and  it  becomes 
rather  hot  towards  nine  or  ten  o'clock, 
you  must  then  stop.  Not  all  the 
grapes  are  to  be  gathered  without  dis- 
crimination, nor  at  any  hour  of  the 
day.  The  ripest  and  those  of  the 
deepest  purple  are  to  be  chosen  first. 
A  hundred  pickers  will  go  through  a 
vineyard  of  thirty  acres  in  three  or 
four  hours  to  make  an  early  vat  of  ten 
or  twelve  pieces.'*  It  was  easy  to 
picture  the  scene  on  these  sunny  slopes 
during  the  first  week  or  two  of  October. 
But  it  was  sad  to  see  the  comparative 
smallness  of  the  bunches  this  year. 
There  was  no  lack  of  witness,  oral  as 
well  as  ocular,  to  the  exceeding  poverty 
of  the  vintage  of  1891.  The  long 
winter  and  the  subsequent  rain  had 
played  terrible  havoc  among  the  vines. 
One  is  by  no  means  among  vineyards 
all  the  way  between  Epernay  and 
E/heims.  The  two  places  are  separated 
by  a  stout  mountain  with  many  a 
square  mile  of  forest  on  the  level  sum- 
mit ;  and  the  road  traverses  this 
woodland  straight  as  a  needle.  It  is 
quite  a  lonely  part  of  the  world.  The 
railway  does  not  trouble  it  Wild 
boar  and  deer  have  it  much  to  them- 
selves except  during  the  hunting-season ; 
and  in  the  heart  of  it,  by  a  Httle  clear- 
ing near  the  road,  I  came  upon  "  the 
image  of  our  Lady,  adored  from  time 
immemorial  in  this  place."  It  was 
nailed  to  an  oak  tree,  having  been  re- 
placed there  in  1880,  "and  solemnly 


blessed  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  by  the 
Archbishop  of  Bheims."  Of  course 
too  there  was  a  strong  box  adjacent. 
This  was  guarded  by  three  padlocks, 
so  that  one  might  assume  it  was  not  a 
penurious  coffer.  But  the  mosquitoes 
were  so  virulent  round  about  the  shrine 
in  the  cool  shade  that  I  did  not 
tarry  long  enough  to  give  a  single  pil- 
grim the  chance  to  appear  with  a 
donation. 

With  the  beginning  of  the  forest 
on  the  Epernay  side  of  the  mountain 
the  vineyards  cease.  Nor  do  they 
reappear  where  the  road  falls  to  the 
north  towards  the  great  towers  of  the 
cathedral  looming  large  above  the 
houses  of  the  city  in  the  plain.  Here 
corn  and  beetroot  are  in  the  ascendant, 
and  there  is  so  little  shade  that  in  the 
dog-days  the  long  undeviating  road  of 
a  dozen  kilometres  must  be  somewhat 
purgatorial.  Even  upon  this  ordinary 
September  afternoon  I  rejoiced  to 
reach  the  brand-new  houses  of  the 
suburbs,  which  sprawl  away  into 
brick-yards  and  disaffected  grain-fields 
like  the  suburbs  of  other  large  towns. 
But  high  above  this  unlovely  quarter 
were  the  cherished  cathedral  towers, 
and  the  bells  from  the  belfry  loosed 
their  music  upon  the  air  and  sent  the 
ancient  jackdaws  of  the  place  cir- 
cling from  their  perches  upon  the 
stone  heads  of  saints,  martyrs,  and 
monarchs. 

Kheims  cannot  be  termed  a  very 
vivacious  city.  I  would  even  call  it 
dull  were  I  not  deterred  by  the  know- 
ledge that  there  are  millions  of  bottles 
of  champagne  beneath  its  streets. 
But  it  really  is  not  anything  like  so 
sparkling  as  it  ought  to  be.  True,  it 
has  sundry  public  places  in  which 
nursemaids  and  the  aged  promenade 
methodically,  tram-cars  in  its  streets, 
a  theatre,  and  an  exhilarating  history. 
You  may  buy  a  glass  of  champagne 
in  its  shops  for  thirty  centimes,  and 
completely  lo^e  count  of  common  life 
in  an  attempt  to  identify  the  stone 
images  encrusting  the  facade  of  the 
cathedral.  Nevertheless  it  does  not 
cast  upon   the    visitor    those    suddetn 


214 


In  the  LaTid  of  Champagne. 


bonds  of  fascination  with  which  other 
places,  perhaps  less  distinguished, 
ensnare  the  affections. 

I  had  heard  that  the  hotel  in  which 
Joan  of  Arc  was  lodged  during  the 
coronation  of  Charles  VII.  still  existed 
and   received   guests.     To   this  house 
therefore  I  went,  and  herein  I  obtained 
a  bedroom  whence  I  could  see  about 
fifty    square  yards   of    the    cathedral 
front  and  the  towers  with  the  jackdaws 
bustling   in    and  out  of    the    belfry. 
But  I   found  I  was   under  a  certain 
misconception.    Joan  herself  had  never 
been   bedded    in    the   old    place,    the 
tiers  of  galleries  about  the  inner  court- 
yard of  which  were  reminiscent  of  the 
ages.      She    no    doubt   had    statelier 
lodging  at  the  Archbishop's  over  the 
way.      But    her   father   and   mother, 
good  honest  folks,  had  been  brought 
hither,  and  were  here  treated  at  the 
city's  expense.     In   the   vestibule   of 
the  hotel  there   was  a  copy    of    the 
document  by  which  the  Council  agreed 
that  the  old  couple  should  be  housed 
and  lodged  gratis.      There  was  also  an 
extremely  ornate    room    designed   to 
transport   the    visitor    into   that    fif- 
teenth century    which  was  not   alto- 
gether one  of  triumph  for  the  English 
arms.      Here  I  might  smoke  and  read 
in    Gothic  ease,  and  look  my  fill  at 
certain     large     frescoes     illustrating 
scenes  in  the  life  of  the   poor  Maid. 
But  they  were  frescoes  designed  rather 
to  satisfy  a  Frenchman  than  to  exalt 
an    Englishman   in   his   own   esteem. 
In  those  days  the  inn  was  called  L'Ane 
Bay^j    which    seems    susceptible     of 
various  translations.     Now  that  nearly 
six  centuries  have  passed  since  Joan's 
burning    at    Bouen,    it   is  known   as 
the  Maison  Bouge. 

After  dinner  the  gentle  tedium  of 
the  place  was  fully  declared.  My 
fellow  guests  at  the  meal  were  large 
elderly  men  with  white  hair  who  said 
nothing  to  each  other  but  accepted  the 
common  interchanges  of  civility  with 
courtly  bows  and  the  most  complete 
politeness.  The  waiters  were  like  unto 
my  companions, — old  and  worn,  but 
as  respectable  and  pleasant  to  behold 


as  a  meerschaum  pipe  in  the  twentieth 
year  of   its   coloration.      They   could 
not  have  treated  us  with  more  consid- 
eration had    we  been  princes  of  the 
blood, — from  Bussia.    But  when  after- 
wards  I   consulted   the    youngest   of 
these  veterans  about  the  disposal  of 
the  ensuing  hours,  he  looked  at  me  in 
blank    bewilderment.      My    bedroom 
candle,    he    assured    me,   was    ready. 
This  at  half-past  eight  in  the  evening, 
after  a  dinner  of  ten  courses  !     Nor 
could  he  be  persuaded  to  see  that  I 
might    be    disinclined  to    follow  the 
example  of  the  mass  of  inhabitants  in 
this  city  of  a  hundred  thousand  souls, 
in  retiring  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock.     In 
effect,  however,  that    is  what  I  did. 
I   smoked  my  cigar   at  a  caf^  where 
certain    shameless   young    men   were 
gambling  for  ^oua,  and  certain  others 
sat  rigid  and  silent  looking  at  them. 
Then  I  strolled   into  the  long  Place 
Drouet    d'Erlon,    where   the   stumpy 
little  houses  and  fat  bow-windows  in- 
truding far  upon  the  pavement   bore 
eloquent  testimony  to  the  age  of  the 
architecture,   and    where,  behind   the 
doors  of    two    or  three  eating-houses 
(with   champagne   at   thirty    centimes 
the    glass),    I  heard  sounds  of    mild 
revelry   which   seemed   to   shock    the 
stray  passers-by.     And  afterwards    I 
returned  to  the  hotel,  was  greeted  with  a 
benevolent  smile  of  approval  from  an 
old  waiter,  and  sent  to  bed,  where  J 
slept  until  the  bells  of  the  cathedral 
awoke  me  at  five  the  next  morning,  and 
recalled  to  my  mind  that  I  was  under 
an  engagement  to  become   intimately 
acquainted   with    the    champagne   of 
Bheims  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

But  before  presenting  myself  at  the 
great  House  of  Heidsieck,  I  paid  my 
respects  to  the  interior  of  the  cathe- 
dral. It  does  not  impress  like  the  ex- 
terior ;  yet  there  is  enough  of  hallowed 
calm  here  to  deter  one  from  the 
audacity  of  comparing  it  unfavourably 
with  other  cathedrals.  A  magnificent 
official  in  a  cocked  hat,  silk  stockings, 
and  a  sword  trod  the  aisle  like  one  at 
home  in  it.  The  Archbishop  himself 
could  not  have  looked  more  imposing. 


In  the  Land  of  Champagne. 


215 


There  chanced  this  morning  to  be  a 
service  of  an  uncommon  kind.  Several 
years  back  a  number  of  tailors  of  the 
city  formed  a  benevolent  society,  the 
chief  object  of  which  was  the  relief  of 
the  necessitous.  The  Church  also  was 
implicated  in  this  good  intention. 
Annually  the  worthy  tailors  were  to 
meet  in  the  cathedral  and  celebrate 
their  anniversary,  not  unattended  by 
positive  proofs  of  the  excellent  deeds 
they  had  done  and  were  about  to  do. 
This  was  the  explanation  of  the  troop 
of  little  girls  in  snow-white  muslin, 
gossamer  veils,  and  with  bouquets  in 
their  hands;  of  the  small  boys  with 
rosettes  in  their  buttonholes,  and 
their  faces  wearing  the  conspicuous 
glaze  of  a  recent  and  unwonted  visita- 
tion ;  and  of  sundry  impatient  old 
gentlemen  with  white  gloves  and 
shiny  black  clothes  which  (remember- 
ing their  vocation)  sat  with  but  little 
grace  upon  them.  The  majestic 
official  did  his  best  to  restrain  the  ex- 
citement of  these  various  associates  of 
the  tailors'  benefaction  until  the  arri- 
val of  the  little  acolytes  in  scarlet 
with  tall  candles,  and  also  of  the 
clergy  who  were  to  conduct  the  ser- 
vice. With  these  newcomers  came 
two  large  baskets  of  loaves,  and  also 
a  smaller  one  containing  discreet 
slices  of  bread.  Then  the  service  be- 
gan, the  elderly  members  of  the  con- 
gregation being  honoured  with  seats 
near  the  high  altar,  which  enabled 
them  periodically  to  gaze  with  extreme 
severity  upon  the  young  acolytes,  who 
smiled  consumedly  at  the  bread,  and 
at  the  tailors  even,  during  the  Mass  it- 
self. Indeed,  one  of  the  lads  was  so 
overcome  with  the  humour  of  the 
scene,  that  the  officiating  priest  paused 
in  the  service  to  reprove  him  by  a  look 
that  he  ought  not  soon  to  have  for- 
gotten. This,  remember,  at  the  high 
altar  of  the  first  cathedral  of  France  ! 
Afterwards,  there  was  a  collection, 
and  simultaneously,  as  a  quid  pro  quo, 
one  of  the  tailors  went  about  with  the 
basket  of  loose  slices  of  bread,  distri- 
buting them  at  random.  To  the  priest 
who  had  just  said   the  responses  he 


gave  a  piece,  and  also  to  the  small 
acolyte  who  had  behaved  so  badly. 
The  little  boys  with  rosettes,  and  the 
self-conscious  little  girls  in  bridal 
attire,  also  participated  in  the  charity, 
and  straightway  began  to  eat  their 
pieces  with  great  heartiness  and  smil- 
ing glances  this  way  and  that.  All 
which,  combined  with  the  proud  yet 
nervous  air  of  the  parchmented  little 
tailor  who  made  the  doles,  was  again 
quite  too  much  for  the  naughty 
acolyte,  who  had  to  retire  behind  the 
altar  with  the  censer  to  compose  him- 
self. 

Of  its  kind  I  have  seen  few 
ceremonies  more  interesting  than  this 
of  the  tailors  in  the  cathedral  of 
Rheims.  It  was  so  distinctly  redolent 
of  long  past  times,  when  the  various 
guilds  of  a  town  were  bodies  as  potent 
as  they  were  respectable.  The  fussy 
little  tailors  seemed  to  be  not  unaware 
of  the  interest  they  excited,  which 
added  yet  keener  zest  to  the  service. 
But  when  it  was  over,  and  they  had 
come  out  of  the  exclusive  precincts  of 
the  choir  (where  they  are  thus  privi- 
leged to  sit  once  a  year)  their  talk 
among  us  of  the  common  world  was  of 
no  very  dignified  nature.  I  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  an  auditor  of  a 
If  eated  argument  between  the  three 
smallest  and  fussiest  of  the  men  about 
the  restaurant  at  which  they  were  now 
to  meet  and  breakfast  together,  in 
honour  of  their  anniversary.  The 
one  tailor  praised  the  restaurant  he 
nominated,  and  the  other  two  each 
had  a  preference  of  their  own.  So  it 
went  on  for  minutes,  until,  with  a 
mild  condescending  smile,  the  magnifi* 
cent  be-sworded  guardian  of  the  cathe- 
dral urged  all  the  tailors  to  the  west 
portal,  and  bowed  them  into  the  open 


air. 


During  the  long  day  of  its  existence 
Kheims  Cathedral  has  seen  many  a 
thousand  such  scenes  as  this.  But 
the  fashions  have  vastly  changed  in 
the  meanwhile.  Doublets  are  not 
now  what  they  were  when  Charles 
VII.  went  in  state  up  the  aisle 
to  bring  new  hope  to  France ;  nor  are 


216 


In  the  Land  of  Champagne, 


church  ceremonies.  In  the  old  days 
a  guild  festival  of  this  kind  would 
have  been  attended  by  the  citizens 
and  their  wives  and  daughters  by  the 
hundred.  But  to  the  few  townsfolk 
and  others  who  watched  the  ceremony 
on  this  occasion  it  was  merely  a 
starched  bit  of  a  spectacle,  more  apt  to 
tickle  the  laughter  in  a  man  than  to 
excite  his  reverence. 

Froin  the  cathedral  it  is  no  long 
walk  to  the  Rue  de  Sedan,  where  the 
producers  of  Dry  Monopole  have  their 
offices.  I  expected  to  find  myself  in 
an  atmosphere  elevating  with  the 
diffused  bouquet  of  champagne.  But 
the  cellars  of  Messrs.  Heidsieck  are  a 
considerable  distance  from  theii* 
offices,  and  there  was  not  so  much  as 
a  cork  visible  in  the  place  to  hint  at 
the  nature  of  the  business  here  so 
abundantly  conducted.  Perhaps  it  is 
as  well  that  it  is  so.  It  is  said  that 
the  very  fumes  of  the  cellars  some- 
times prove  too  much  for  the  head  of 
a  weakly  man.  And  I  myself  can 
vouch  for  the  fact  that  they  become 
distinctly  nauseating  after  even  two 
or  three  hours. 

It  is  not  the  custom  with  the  cham- 
pagne-merchants of  Rheims  to  treat 
their  workmen  and  workwomen  as  the 
traditional  confectioner  treats  his 
apprentice.  They  do  not  in  fact 
attempt  to  breed  in  them  a  distaste 
for  champagne.  That  I  suppose  were 
a  crime  of  high  treason  against  the 
majesty  of  the  noble  vine.  In  the 
premises  of  Pommery,  indeed,  it  is  the 
vogue  to  offer  one  glass  of  champagne 
daily  to  the  persons  employed.  That 
taken  before  work  begins  may  well  be 
thougbtto  serveas  an  agreeable  and  use- 
ful stimulant  to  labour.  But  the  com- 
mon beverage  in  the  cellars  is  a  good, 
sound,  red  wine,  which  is  dispensed  to 
the  workers  in  no  stinted  measure. 
I  am  told  that  there  are  members  of 
the  fair  sex  at  Heidsieck' s  (cork- 
stampers,  bottle-markers,  (fee.)  who 
dispose  of  four  quart  bottles  of  red  wine 
during  their  ten  hours  of  work.  The 
men  too  are  a  thirsty  race.  Madame 
Pommery  is  less  lavish  with  her  ser- 


vants. She  allows  them  a  couple  of 
bottles  each  in  the  day,  which  seems 
adequate. 

From  the  giound  floor  of  the 
spacious  warehouse  into  which  one 
enters  from  the  inner  courtyard  of 
Messrs.  Heidsieck's  premises,  a  shaft 
descends  vertically  about  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  into  the  ground.  It  is 
sunk  through  solid  chalk.  From  the 
main  shaft  there  are  three  lateral 
galleries  which  connect  with  each 
other  by  staircases.  These  galleries 
hold  the  millions  of  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne which  are  the  necessary  equip- 
ment of  a  first-rate  modern  Rheims 
House.  The  vertical  shaft  is  of  course 
for  mechanical  purposes  only.  Here 
is  a  machine  and  an  endless  chain, 
which  lift  the  wine  to  the  surface  in 
cases.  The  wine  is  made  (if  the  word 
may  be  used  where  "  fabricated " 
would  not  do  equally  well)  below,  and 
packed  for  exportation  above. 

The  temperature  in  these  gloomy 
corridors  cut  in  the  native  rock  never 
varies  from  about  46°  Fahr.  In  win- 
ter the  men  enjoy  it  for  its  mildness ; 
but  in  summer  it  seems  far  from 
genial.  The  excessive  dampness  too 
must  be  prejudicial  in  many  cases.  If 
you  touch  the  heavy  canvas  screens 
which  divide  the  galleries,  you  feel 
that  you  could  squeeze  quarts  of  water 
from  them,  and  the  waUs  of  course  reek 
with  moisture.  Yet  there  is  really 
not  a  degree  too  much  of  cold,  nor  one 
drop  too  much  of  humidity  in  the 
cellars.  All  this  is  necessary  to  tame 
the  high  spirits  of  the  Champagne 
wine.  The  loss  by  bursting  bottles  is 
enormous,  even  under  these  conditions 
of  discomfort  for  mortals  and  restraint 
for  wine. 

There  is  electric  light  in  the  cellars 
but  its  lustre  seems  much  abated  by 
the  prevalent  gloom  and  oppressive 
humidity.  The  men  working  among, 
the  bottles  thirty  yards  away  are  but 
dimly  visible.  And  what  tedious  un- 
inspiring work  some  of  it  is  !  Imagine, 
for  instance,  a  person  spending  ten 
hours  of  continuous  toil  in  lifting  bot- 
tles from  their  racks,  giving  them  a 


In  the  Land  of  GliampagTie. 


217 


turn  or  two,  and  replacing  them.  This 
too  in  absolute  solitude,  in  a  slip  of  a 
gallery  deviating  from  a  main  corridor, 
and  curtained  off  from  the  hoUow 
sound  of  his  comrades'  voices  in  the 
distance  by  the  wet  sackcloth  at  the 
opening.  No  doubt,  with  men  of  con- 
science and  concentration,  this  loneli- 
ness serves  well  enough  in  the  in- 
terests of  the  firm.  A  deft  workman 
will,  it  is  said,  turn  from  five-and- 
twenty  to  thirty  thousand  bottles 
daily.  This  is  his  work  day  after  day. 
It  is  one  of  the  various  processes 
which  give  us  a  wine  clear  as  crystal, 
from  which  almost  every  particle  of 
sediment  has  been  coaxed  and  expelled. 
But  it  does  not  suit  all  men.  Some 
cannot  stand  the  dismal  monotony, 
which  really  seems  almost  on  a|par 
with  certain  of  the  experiences  of  a 
Siberian  exile.  Life  in  the  champagne 
cellars  does  not  tend  to  length  of  days. 
After  a  spell  of  years  in  such  employ- 
ment the  man  seems  to  have  become 
unfitted  for  continuous  existence  above 
the  ground  and  in  a  drier  air.  While 
he  is  daily  in  the  damp  atmosphere  of 
45°  or  46°,  and  supported  by  a  daily 
magnum  or  two  of  good  red  wine,  he 
has  not  much  to  complain  about.  But 
afterwards  he  is  apt  to  fall  to  pieces. 
Fifty- five  is  reckoned  a  good  age  for 
him  to  attain. 

Of  the  various  details  of  the  making 
of  good  champagne  none  is  more  in- 
teresting than  the  final  stage,  imme- 
diately precedent  to  the  second  and 
last  corking.  This  occurs  when  the 
wine  has  been  in  bottle  long  enough 
to  have  had  all  the  sediment  brought 
towards  the  cork  by  the  systematic 
turning  and  the  general  inclination 
of  the  bottle  itself.  If  you  look 
At  the  sediment  in  such  a  bottle 
you  may  well  be  surprised  at  its  bulk 
And  apparent  solidity.  It  shows  it- 
self as  a  substance  by  the  cork  from 
half  an  inch  to  an  inch  in  length. 
The  contrast  of  its  whiteness  with  the 
pellucid  gold  of  the  nether  wine  is 
quite  curious.  And  it  is  from  this 
stratum  of  fine  white  particles,  the 
crystallised   tartar  of  the  wine,  that 


each  bottle  has  successively  to  be 
freed  by  the  process  known  as  dSgage- 
ment,  though  more  often  called  dis- 
gorgement. 

Much  depends  upon  the  skill  of  the 
"  disgorger  '*  as  we  will  call  the  man 
who  sits  at  his  work,  and  takes  bottle 
after  bottle  to  operate  upon.  Unless 
he  can  time  his  movements  to  the 
second,  he  is  more  than  likely  to  spill 
an  unnecessary  amount  of  the  pure 
wine  in  expelling  the  sediment.  This, 
with  millions  of  bottles,  of  course 
would  mean  the  sacrifice  of  a  vast  deal 
of  wine.  The  disgorgers  are  therefore 
the  best  paid  men  in  the  champagne 
vaults.  At  Heidsieck*s  a  method  is 
in  vogue  which  freezes  the  sediment  so 
that  it  comes  out  as  a  lump  of  ice.  The 
bottle  is  then  passed  by  the  disgorger 
to  another  man  who  fills  the  vacuum 
caused  by  the  removal  of  this  sub- 
stance with  champagne  liqueur.  Some 
people  suppose  that  brandy  is  used 
for  this  purpose,  but  that  is  a  popular 
error. 

With  all  possible  speed  the  bottle 
passes  finally  to  the  corker,  who  soon 
solves  the  riddle  of  how  a  cork  with  a 
natural  diameter  of  an  inch  and  a 
quarter  can  be  got  into  a  bottle  mouth 
having  a  diameter  of  but  three  quar- 
ters of  an  inch.  Fifty  years  ago  the 
corking  was  done  in  the  old-fashioned 
way,  with  a  strong  arm  and  a  mallet. 
The  bottles  then  sometimes  broke  to 
pieces  under  the  vigorous  blows  they 
had  to  bear,  and  the  bottler  bottled  at 
his  peril.  It  still  happens  of  course 
that  in  disgorging  its  sediment  occa- 
sionally a  bottle  flies  to  pieces  and  en- 
dangers the  disgorger.  But  upon  the 
whole  the  risks  are  much  less  than 
they  were.  Improvements  in  the  pro- 
cesses of  champagne-making  are  not 
infrequent ;  yet  there  is  still  an  open- 
ing for  the  inventive  mind.  There  is, 
as  the  phrase  runs,  a  fortune  at  hand 
for  the  man  who  can  design  a  non- 
absorptive  cork. 

It  is  quite  a  relief  to  emerge  from 
the  damp  chill  home  of  these  millions 
of  bottles  of  champagne,  and  to  glance 
at  the  women  above  working  in  the 


218 


In  the  Land  of  Champagne, 


blessed  daylight  and  breathing  a  more 
congenial  air.  Here  are  sacks  of  corks, 
and  the  dames  and  girls  may  be  seen 
giving  the  impress  of  Dry  Monopole  to 
one  cork  after  another.  The  cork 
itself  is  of  the  best  obtainable  quality  ; 
with  a  little  search  among  the  stamped 
pieces,  you  may  discover  some  of  a 
material  as  smooth  as  planed  deal. 

The  wrapping  of  the  tinfoil  round 
the  necks  of  the  bottles  and  the  label- 
ling are  also  women's  work.  It  is 
interesting  to  learn  that  the  red  foil 
bottles  are  for  Germany.  They 
indicate  a  sweeter  wine  than  that 
which  goes  to  England.  Canning  once 
said  that  the  man  who  declared 
that  he  preferred  dry  champagne  to 
sweet  lied  unblushingly.  This  was  of 
course  a  candid  confession  of  inex- 
perience on  the  part  of  the  states- 
man. His  words  would  be  received 
with  polite  incredulity  among  the 
people  of  Rheims.  And  certainly, 
after  drinking  a  bottle  of  Dry  Mono- 
pole  here  among  the  models  of  old  cham- 
pagne bottles  during  the  last  century, 
one  has  no  desire  for  anything  sweeter. 
My  guide  informed  me  that  he  has 
more  than  once  taken  as  much  as  four 
bottles  of  the  wine  without  inconveni- 
ence. The  occasions  were  festive  and 
exceptional ;  but  his  words  were  none 
the  less  a  compliment  both  to  the 
wine  and  to  his  own  head  and  stomach. 

It  must  not  be  thought,  in  spite  of 
the  immense  and  growing  consumption 
of  champagne  all  over  the  world,  that 
the  trade  of  wine-merchant  in  Rheims 
is  one  of  sure  and  easy  prosperity. 
Perhaps  only  one  year  in  twelve  can 
be  termed  a  good  vintage.  The  man 
without  enough  capital  to  wait  for  the 
good  vintages  to  balance  the  bad  ones 
must  not  hope  to  make  a  reputation 
and  the  fortune  that  follows  a  reputa- 
tion. There  must,  too,  be  an  immense 
sum  invested  in  reserve  wines,  espe- 
cially in  a  house  like  Heidsieck*s,  which 
relies  mainly  upon  the  production  of 
a  wine  of  uniform  quality.  Dry 
Monopole  is  Dry  Monopole  all  the 
world  over.  If  you  are  sure  the  bottle 
before  you   contains  this,  you   know 


exactly  what  pleasure  is  in  store  for 
you.  But  the  makers  of  Dry  Mono- 
pole  have  toiled  about  a  hundred  year& 
for  their  fame.  I  ask  upon  what 
amount  of  capital  a  house  like  theirs- 
could  be  established,  and  am  told  that 
with  five  or  six  millions  of  francs  the 
experiment  might  be  made.  As  for 
the  result  of  the  experiment,  however, 
it  would  be  like  tossing  up  a  coin  and 
crying  Jiead  or  tail. 

One  set  of  cellars  in  Rheims  much 
resembles  another.  There  is,  however, 
something  peculiarly  captivating  to 
the  imagination  in  the  larger  and 
loftier  vaults  of  the  great  House  of 
Pommery.  Here  the  eye  is  appealed 
to  much  more  than  in  the  galleries  of 
Messrs.  Heidsieck.  There  is  no  electrie 
lighting,  but  the  daylight  descends  in 
places  down  huge  yawning  shafts 
pierced  in  the  chalk.  The  Romans 
are  said  to  have  begun  these  useful 
excavations  in  Rheims,  and  Messrs. 
Pommery  and  Greno  have  much  im- 
proved upon  their  freehold  of  old 
Rome's  labours.  The  number  of 
bottles  here  may  be  two  or  three 
times  as  many  as-  in  Heidsieck's 
cellars.  It  is  impossible  to  give  an 
exact  account.  There  are  miles  of 
them,  with  from  twelve  to  fifteen 
million  bottles  by  the  wayside;  alid 
between  five  and  six  hundred  men  and 
women  attend  to  them. 

Bearing  in  mind  the  vastness  of  the 
supply,    it   does   not   seem   that    the 
champagne-makers  of  Rheims  act  with 
an  imprudent  generosity  in  offering  as- 
they  do  bottle   after   bottle  of   their 
choicest  wine  to  their  casual  visitors. 
It  is,  however,  an  act  of  very  precious 
courtesy.     Thus,  having  in  the  morn- 
ing drunk  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  Dry 
Monopole,  I   was    privileged    in  the 
afternoon   to   be   able  to  compare  it 
with  Pommery's  1 884.   This  is  the  date 
of  the  last  good  champagne  year.    The 
cellarer  (a  gentleman  of  standing,  for 
all  his  blue  smock)  has  no  doubt  of 
your  verdict  as  he  pours  the  aromatic 
fluid  into  your  glass.     It  is  as  clear 
as  spring  water,  and  the  colour  of  a 
sulphur    crystal.      The   bottles    thu& 


In  the  Land  of  Ghamipagne. 


219 


opened  for  the  tourist  may,  T  suppose, 
be  counted  by  the  thousand  annually. 
But  it  is  enough  to  remember  the 
historic  ravaging  of  the  cellars  of  M. 
Moet  of  Epernay  during  the  Revolu- 
tionary wars  to  realise  that  good  may 
come  out  of  such  apparent  sacrifice. 
The  Russians  relieved  M.  Moet  of 
about  six  hundred  thousand  bottles. 
That  would  of  course  have  ruined  a 
small  man ;  but  M.  Moet  could  afford 
to  wait ;  and  soon  after  the  war  he 
found  that  he  received  twice  as  many 
orders  from  Russia  as  before.  That 
immeasurable  country  continues  to  be 
a  valued  client  both  in  Epernay  and 
Rheims, — though  it  is  not  reputed  to 
be  the  best  of  judges  between  genuine 
and  fictitious  champagne. 

There  are  other  names  to  conjure 
with  here  within  sound  of  the  bold 
bells  of  the  cathedral  besides  Heid- 
sieck  and  Pommery  ;  but  they  need 
not  be  enumerated.  They  are  at  least 
as  well  known  as  the  names  of  certain 
crowned  heads  of  the  Eastern  hemi- 
sphere. Are  they  not  on  every  wine 
list  throughout  the  world,  and  have 
they  not  the  agreeable  consciousness 
that  they  are  factors  of  innocent  ex- 
hilaration in  a  thousand  households 
every  day  in  the  year?  That  is  the 
best  of  good  champagne ;  it  is  ab- 
solutely harmless.  Ere  the  year  1 652, 
certain  French  physicians  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  that  it  might  produce 
gout.  This  was  a  terrible  charge.  It 
of  course  affected  the  claim  of  the 
wine  to  its  pre-eminence  in  the  realm. 
In  that  year  therefore  a  discussion 
was  opened  as  to  the  superiority  of 
champagne  or  burgundy.  The  learned 
doctors  debated  on  the  matter  until 
five  generations  had  passed  away.  In 
1778,  however,  it  was  judicially  de- 
creed that  champagne  was  the  first 
wine  in  the  world.  As  for  the  cruel 
charge  brought  against  it,  the  Maiaon 
Bustiquey  already  quoted,  may  again 
be  relied  upon  for  its  information : 
"It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that  cham- 
pagne can  give  the  gout.  There  is 
not  a  single  gouty  person  in  all  the  pro- 
vince ;  which  is  the  best  possible  proof." 


In  the  valley  of  the  Marne  the  wine 
is  annually  toasted  at  meeting  after 
meeting.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
conceive  an  article  of  commerce  more 
worthy  of  such  attentions,  or  more 
able  to  inspire  eloquence  on  behalf  of 
itself.  Apologists  for  it  also  continue 
to  rise  to  their  feet  with  the  familiar 
long-bodied  glasses  in  their  hands,  and 
to  utter  their  warm  protest  against 
the  mere  idea  that  had  entered  the 
heads  of  the  doctors  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. "I  affirm  in  defiance  of  all 
doctors,"  said  a  gentleman  in  public 
only  the  other  day  at  Ay,  "  that 
champagne  is  the  wine  of  health  it- 
self, and  that  it  is  always  on  good 
terms  with  the  man  who  drinks  it, 
even  though  immoderately ;  that  it 
has  never  occasioned  a  suicide  [a  sad 
hit  at  our  old  English  habit  of  port 
drinking  !] ;  that  it  agrees  perfectly 
with  the  most  delicate  of  stomachs; 
and  that  if  it  may  sometimes  have 
sent  its  votaries  to  sleep — an  innocent 
crime — such  slumber  was  full  of  sweet 
dreams  and  desirable  visions ! "  It 
would  be  hard  to  surpass  such  eulogy. 

One  is  prone  to  wonder  if  Joan  of 
Arc  indulged  in  champagne  when  she 
stayed  here  in  1429.  That  it  was 
offered  her  there  can  be  no  reasonable 
doubt ;  but  she  may  have  had  scruples, 
poor  girl,  which  withheld  her  from  the 
enjoyment  of  such  material  pleasures. 
Other  remarkable  visitors  to  Rheims 
were,  however,  deterred  by  no  such 
scruples.  King  Wenceslaus  of  Bo- 
hemia is  one  of  the  most  memorable 
of  the  willing  victims  of  champagne. 
He  came  to  Rheims  in  1397,  to  con- 
trive a  treaty  with  the  King  of  France ; 
and  when  he  had  tasted  the  wine  of 
Rheims  he  was  so  enamoured  of  it  that 
he  appeared  likely  never  to  terminate 
his  diplomatic  business.  Day  after 
day  he  intoxicated  himself  on  cham- 
pagne, and  it  seemed  as  if  State  affairs 
and  his  pleasures  would  keep  him  under 
the  shadow  of  the  great  cathedral  till 
he.died.  We  may  doubt  if  this  monarch 
had  much  discrimination  in  what  he 
drank.  But  probably  the  allurements 
of  a  debauch  unattended  by  headaches 


220 


^  In  the  Land  of  Champagne, 


and  remorse  were  as  strong  an  attrac- 
tion for  him  in  Rheims  as  the  bouquet 
of  the  wine  itself. 

In  those  days  the  best  of  good  wine 
in  France  proceeded  from  the  cellars 
of  the  different  abbeys  and  monas- 
teries ;  and  no  doubt  it  was  the  same 
here  in  Kheims.  It  is  to  the  monks 
and  their  careful  nursing  of  the  wine 
that  we  owe  the  superb  wines  of  our 
time.  Chartreuse,  Clos-Vougeot,  and 
Chambertin  are  names  that  compel 
respect  of  a  kind  for  monastic  institu- 
tions, even  from  fanatics  the  most 
intolerant  of  the  Church.  One  may 
readily  imagine,  therefore,  that  in 
Rheims,  the  seat  of  the  highest  Church 
dignitary  of  France,  the  cellars  have 
never  lacked  good  wine  during  about  a 
millennium  and  a  half. 

Champagne  is  said  to  have  reached 
its  present  degree  of  excellence  at  the 
time  of  the  assassination  of  King 
Henry  IV.  in  1610.  Ere  then,  how- 
ever, the  rulers  of  Europe  had  each 
possessed  vineyards  of  their  own  on 
these  bright  slopes  near  the  Marne ; 
Henry  YIII.  of  England,  Pope  Leo  X., 
and  Charles  V.  of  Spain.  We  may 
suppose  that  even  in  those  days  certain 
tricks  of  adulteration  and  counterfeit 
were  in  vogue.  It  was  much,  there- 
fore, to  be  assured  of  having  a  pure 
wine  straight    from  the  vineyards  of 

During  the  long  reign  of  Louis  XIII. 
champagne  grew  in  appreciation.  At 
the  Court  it  doubtless  witnessed  many 
a  scene  that  would  have  soured  the 
spirit  of  a  less  generous  wine.  In  the 
cellars  of  Pommery  and  Greno  one  is 
reminded  of  the  revels  of  the  Palais 
Royal  by  a  certain  impressive  alto- 
relief  chiselled  in  the  chalk  by  a  modern 
sculptor  of  Rheims.  It  represents  a 
champagne  feast  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  in  which  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
who  might  have  stepped  from  one  of 
Watteau's  canvases,  and  goblets  of 
wine  are  in  very  lively  association. 
The  light  from  above  upon  this  re- 
spectable work  of  art  makes  the  white 
figures  stand  forth  in  the  half -gloom 


with  a  convincing  effect.  From  Louis 
the  Great  little  in  contempt  of  cham- 
pagne was  likely  to  proceed.  In  fact, 
it  is  said  that  he  drank  nothing  but 
champagne  until  he  was  an  old  man. 
Then  his  physician  thought  well  to 
advise  burgundy  in  its  stead.  Two 
years  later  the  King  died.  This  too  is 
of  course  an  invincible  testimony  of 
the  life-preserving  as  well  as  life-giving 
properties  of  the  incomparable  bever- 
age. Every  modern  doctor  of  experi- 
ence knows  the  value  of  champagne, 
and  can  tell  of  patients  who  have  been 
kept  alive  upon  it,  and  upon  little 
else,  for  months  or  even  years.  Louis 
Quatorze  was  but  one  among  the 
thousands  who  have  leased  existence 
from  it. 

According  to  the  French,  the  great 
Napoleon,  like  the  great  Louis,  was  a 
staunch  admirer  and  a  constant  drinker 
of  champagne.  But  authorities  differ 
as  to  whether  or  no  it  held  the  first 
place  among  beverages  in  his  esteem. 
The  poet  Moore  ascribes  this  honour 
to  a  wine  of  Burgundy  : 

Chambertin,  which  you  know's  the  pet 
tipple  of  Nap. 

It  is  weU  also  to  remember  that  after 
Waterloo,  when  we  captured  his  tra- 
velling-carriage, two  bottles  were  taken 
with  it,  containing  respectively  rum 
and  malaga.  However,  even  as  a  man 
has  many  other  inclinations  and  appe- 
tites besides  the  master  ambition  of 
his  soul,  so  Napoleon  may  have  in- 
dulged in  these  meaner  fiuids  without 
forswearing  allegiance  to  champagne. 
Talleyrand,  we  know,  termed  cham- 
pagne **the  wine  of  civilisation,  joar 
excellence^ 

There  is  in  short  no  end  to  the  fine 
things  that  have  been  said  about  this 
simple  straw-coloured  fluid  which 
seethes  with  such  a  cheerful  murmur 
from  its  heavy  bottle.  Rheims  may 
well  be  a  proud  little  city.  Its  cathe- 
dral and  its  wine  are  matchless.  With 
such  credentials  it  can  afford  to  be 
somewhat  dull. 

Charles  Edwardes.  . 


221 


POLITICS  AND   INDUSTRY. 


In  Europe  there  is  at  present   no 
**  military  problem.'*     There  are,  un- 
doubtedly, discussions  on  the  chances 
pf  war  and  on  the  degree  of  efficiency 
to  which  particular   armies  have  at- 
tained, but  there  is  no  military  prob- 
lem in  the  sense  in  which  there  is  an 
"  industrial  problem."    In  other  words, 
there  is  no  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
the  relation  of  the  army  to  the  State. 
It  is  admitted  on  all  sides  that  mili- 
tary efficiency  is,  not   to   be   left   to 
chance,  but   is   a  thing  that  govern- 
ments must  attend  to ;  and  it  is  ad- 
mitted that  the  State  does  not  exist 
in  order  to  keep  up  an  army,  but  the 
army  in  order  to  preserve  the  State. 
Nor   is    it    any   longer    necessary   to 
devise  means  by  which  military  effici- 
ency may  be  rendered  compatible  with 
any    type    of     political     institutions. 
These  are  determined  by  the  general 
political  movement ;  while  the  type  of 
military    organisation    is    determined 
independently  by  military  exigencies. 

This  was  not  always  so.  There 
have  been  times  when  it  was  necessary 
to  prove  by  elaborate  argument  that 
if  it  has  too  little  strength  for  war  a 
nation  cannot  be  sure  of  maintaining 
its  existence.  On  the  other  side,  too 
great  military  efficiency  has  presented 
itself  as  a  danger  to  free  institutions, 
and  schemes  have  been  worked  out  by 
political  thinkers  for  combining  free- 
dom with  the  national  strength  which 
they  saw  to  be  necessary.  Thus  the 
question  was  not  simply  how  to  bring 
to  bear  the  knowledge  of  experts  on  a 
public  opinion  that  was  in  agreement 
about  the  end,  but  ignorant  of  the 
means.  Theories  as  to  the  form  mili- 
tary organisation  should  take  were 
involved  with  disputed  questions  about 
the  political  structure  of  society. 
General  ideas,  arrived  at  by  reasoning 
on  facts  accessible  to  every  one,  had 


still  a  share  in  modifying  the  course 
of  events.  Partly  by  the  influence  of 
such  general  ideas,  and  partly  by  the 
coDflict  of  forces,  a  solution  capable  of 
lasting  for  a  time  has  been  at  length 
attained.  Anything  in  advance  of  the 
present  solution — any  kind  of  inter- 
national organisation,  for  example — 
now  seems  more  out  of  the  range  of 
speculation  than  it  did  in  the  eighteenth 
century. 

The  cessation  of  the  military  prob- 
lem as  a  question  of  general  politics 
has  been  accompanied  by  the  rise  of 
the  industrial  problem.  There  have 
been  times,  of  course,  when  there  was 
no  "industrial  problem."  A  certain 
industrial  system  was  accepted  by 
every  one,  and  all  change  that  was 
introduced  in  it  came  about  through 
unconscious  processes;  or,  more  ex- 
actly, through  processes  not  deter- 
mined by  any  conscious  effort  on  the 
part  of  society  to  shape  the  industrial 
system  as  it  ought  to  be.  So  far  as 
there  was  any  conscious  collective 
effort,  it  was  simply  an  effort  to  pro- 
mote prosperity  within  the  lines  of 
the  existing  system.  It  need  hardly 
be  said  that  the  present  is  not  a  time 
when  this  is  all  that  is  aimed  at.  The 
whole  attitude  of  society  or  of  the 
State  towards  industry  has  become  a 
question  for  conscious  deliberation. 
The  question  is  not  simply  to  find  the 
means  of  attaining  an  end  that  is 
agreed  upon.  There  is  no  agreement 
even  as  to  the  general  form  of  the 
solution.  This  being  so,  the  question 
is  not  one  simply  for  experts.  At  its 
present  stage,  light  may  be  thrown 
upon  it  by  reasoning  that  proceeds 
on  entirely  general  grounds ;  that 
is,  without  any  reference  to  specific 
proposals. 

The  best  means  of  throwing  light 
upon  the  question  in  its  general  aspect 


222 


Politics  and  Industry. 


seems  to  be  a  classification  of  the 
chief  possible  solutions.  There  is  at 
least  a  chance  that  the  right  solution 
may  be  arrived  at  by  elimination  of 
the  wrong  ones. 

First,  the  solution  known  as  laissez 
/aire  may  be  considered  The  advo- 
cates of  this  solution  may  be  most 
correctly  described  as  industrial  an- 
archists. In  spite  of  disclaimers,  this 
is  the  doctrine  that  furnishes  the  in- 
teUectual  basis  for  nearly  all  attacks 
on  "  socialistic  legislation."  It  is, 
perhaps,  the  first  conscious  attempt 
that  has  been  made  to  solve  the  in- 
dustrial problem.  It  owes  its  plausi- 
bility partly  to  the  fact  that  it  really 
embodies  some  truth,  and  partly  to  a 
confusion.  The  confusion  consists  in 
an  identification  of  economical  laissez 
faire  with  political  freedom.  The 
truth  it  contains  is  the  clear  concep- 
tion of  some  results  of  the  science 
known  as  political  economy.  When 
economists  had  shown  that  in  par- 
ticular kinds  of  commercial  transac- 
tion, such  as  international  trade, 
the  country  that  does  not  interfere 
with  the  economical  course  of  things 
will  be  the  most  prosperous  commer- 
cially, it  was  an  obvious  practical 
inference  that,  whenever  commercial 
prosperity  is  the  thing  desired,  the 
State  ought  to  let  transactions  of  this 
particular  kind  alone.  The  laissezfaire 
school  drew  the  correct  inference ;  but 
it  proceeded  to  generalise  it  into  a 
precept  applicable  at  all  times  and 
places  and  to  every  kind  of  commercial 
and  industrial  transaction.  No  doubt 
exceptions  were  admitted,  but  they 
were  admitted  only  as  exceptions  to  a 
general  rule.  The  line  usually  taken 
now  is  to  go  on  admitting  more  and 
more  exceptions,  while  yet  continuing 
to  maintain  that  the  rule  is  true  in  its 
generality.  Still  this  process,  con- 
tinued long  enough,  amounts  to  the 
rejection  of  laissezfaire  as  a  universal 
precept.  By  gradual  concessions  on 
the  part  of  its  practical  defenders,  it 
is  being  reduced  to  the  position  it  was 
-entitled  to  claim  at  first — that  of  a 
rule  true  in  some  particular  cases.     In 


practice  its  application  has  been  miti- 
gated, both  by  survivals  from  an  older 
state  of  things  and  by  new  modem 
legislation  proceeding  from  motives  not 
purely  economical. 

The  type  of  society  that  consist- 
ent industrial  anarchy  tends  to  pro- 
duce is  the  plutocratic  ;  and  its  ad- 
vocates are  now  mostly  found  among 
the  friends  of  plutocracy.  When  no 
function  of  the  State  in  relation  to 
industry  is  recognised  except  that  of 
clearing  the  ground  for  unlimited 
competition,  the  natural  consequence  is 
that  everything  is  made  subordinate  to 
this  kind  of  industrial  struggle,  and 
that  those  who  are  most  proficient  in 
it  attain,  together  with  wealth,  the 
largest  share  of  political  power.  With 
conscious  or  unconscious  art,  the  in- 
dustrial anarchists  proclaim  their  cause 
to  be  that  of  individual  freedom.  Yet 
it  is  a  fact  that  freedom,  in  its  political 
sense,  was  understood  and  fought  for 
long  before  the  maxim  of  letting  in- 
dustry alone — whether  right  or  wrong 
commercially — was  heard  of.  And, 
when  we  look  at  the  actual  state  of  the 
case,  the  contradiction  between  indivi- 
dual freedom  and  regulation  of  industry 
by  law  is  seen  to  be  quite  illusory.  The 
operations  of  the  greater  industry — and 
this  is  what  it  is  commonly  proposed  to 
regulate — are  part  of  an  immense  and 
complicated  mechanism  where  there  is 
no  room  for  really  free  contract  in 
matters  of  detail  between  individual 
employers  and  workmen.  The  action 
of  the  mechanism,  left  to  itself,  is  de- 
termined by  the  comparatively  blind 
forces  recognised  in  economics — love  of 
gain  and  need  of  subsistence.  State- 
intervention  brings  to  bear  upon  it 
forces  involving  both  more  intelligence 
and  more  regard  to  ethical  ends.  By 
this  means  it  sets  the  individual  free, 
in  a  larger  number  of  cases,  to  become 
more  of  an  end  for  himself  and  less  of 
an  instrument  for  external  ends.  It 
thus  increases  the  kind  of  freedom  for 
which,  according  to  on©  theory,  the 
State  exists. 

Having  dealt  with  the  anarchical 
solution,  we  may  proceed  to  deal  with 


Politics  and  Industry, 


223 


its  antithesis,  the  socialistic  solution. 
This  is  to  be  distinguished  here  from 
what  is  called  "  socialistic  legislation," 
or     "  State-socialism " ;     these     being 
merely  names  applied  to  any  mitiga- 
tion  of    anarchy.      Socialism,    in    its 
proper  sense,  must  be  taken  to  mean 
the    actual  conduct,    by   the    central 
government  or  its  subordinate  govern- 
ments and   agents,  of    all    industrial 
operations.     It  involves,  of  course,  the 
substitution  of  collective  for  individual 
property.  The  purely  economical  argu- 
ment against  socialism  is  that  it  would 
be  less  efficient  in   producing  wealth. 
Work  done  under  the  direct  compulsion 
of    social   authority   would  be    badly 
done ;  and  absence  of  the  hope   that 
exists  where  there  is  room  for  competi- 
tion would  further  depress  all  energies. 
When  socialism  is  considered  on  more 
general    grounds,    the     argument    is 
urged  that  private  property  is  essential 
to   individual    freedom.      Neither    of 
these  arguments  can  really  be  answered. 
And    the     contention    that     genuine 
socialism  is  incompatible  with  indivi- 
dual freedom  is  completely  confirmed  by 
recent  popular  literature  on  the  social- 
istic side.     To  these  arguments  it  may 
be  added,  that  socialism  has  in  common 
with  the  opposite  system  the  defect  of 
regarding  society  too  exclusively  from 
the  economical  point  of  view.     For  the 
industrial  anarchist,  the  State  is  there 
chiefly  to  make  sure  that  the  action  of 
economical     forces    is    not   interfered 
with.     If  these  by  themselves  tend  to 
produce  a  certain  type  of  society,  all 
that  remains  for  the  individual  is  to 
adapt  himself  to  it.     Bringing  other 
social    forces   into  play  is   not  to  be 
thought    of.      The   tendency  of   com- 
mercial competition  is  to  become  fiercer. 
Let  U8  then  consider  the  type  that  is  most 
successful  under  fierce  competition  and 
try  to    become    like   that.     Anything 
that  will    "pay"  is  as   "liberal"   as 
anything  else  if  intelligently  studied. 
Then  let  us  study  intelligently  what 
will    pay.     On   his  side,  the   socialist 
would    exact   from   everybody  labour 
which  could  be  proved   before   some 
social  authority    to  be    useful.     And 


such  compulsion  would  be  made  practi- 
cable, and  would  be  made  to  press  on 
all  alike  (except  perhaps  the  officials) 
by  the  absence  of  individual  property 
and  free  contract.  Thus,  especially, 
all  serious  aesthetic  pursuits  would  be 
rendered  impossible  (except  perhaps 
when  the  favour  of  authority  could  be 
gained).  For  the  socialist,  the  State 
exists  first  as  an  industrial  mechanism, 
and  all  that  is  not  industrial  is  a  super- 
fluous accompaniment  of  its  working. 
In  short,  consistent  socialism,  when 
examined,  turns  out  to  be  as  soulless 
as  plutocracy. 

A  solution  different  from  either  of 
those   that    have    been    discussed    is 
accepted  by  Positivists  and  Catholics. 
This  may  be  called  the  hierocratic  so- 
lution.    Private  property  is  allowed, 
but  its  use  is  to  be  ordered  in  accord- 
ance   with   a    uniform    religious   doc- 
trine    theoretically     elaborated     and 
applied  to  practice  by   a   priesthood. 
Capital,  according  to  the  Positivists, 
is  to  be  "  moralised."     That  is  to  say, 
capitalists  are  to  regulate  the  distri- 
bution of  wealth   in  the  interests  of 
workmen.     This  could  not  be  secured 
without  some  social  power  separate  from 
the  body  of  capitalists  ;  and  the  power 
is  found  in  a  Church.     A  moral  public 
opinion,  practically  irresistible  by  in- 
dividuals, is  to  be  formed  and  wielded 
by   an  organised  "  spiritual  power " 
independent  of  the  State.     The  solu- 
tion recently  propounded  for  the  ac- 
ceptance of  Catholics  does  not  differ 
from    this    essentially ;     though    the 
theological  doctrine  of  the  Church  in 
the  two  cases  is  of  course  not  the  same. 
One    merit     may    be    acknowledged 
in  this  solution.      A   wider  view   of 
society  is  taken  than  in  the  two  others. 
All    social   activities   are    recognised, 
and   not   simply  economical  activity. 
On  the  other  hand,  they  are  recognised 
only   to    be    controlled   by    the    doc- 
trine  and    discipline   of    a    universal 
Church.     No  amount  of  material  com- 
fort diffused  to  any  conceivable  extent 
is  worth  this  price.     To  permit  either 
an  old  or  a  new  Church  to  take  the 
place  claimed  for  it  would  involve  the 


224 


Politics  and  Industry, 


suppression  of  intellectual  liberty. 
Now  intellectual  liberty,  whatever 
may  be  the  aspirations  of  the  "au- 
thoritative "  schools,  is  not  a  mere 
incident  of  a  "  period  of  transition," 
but  a  permanent  conquest  of  philo- 
sophic thought  and  of  the  development 
of  the  modern  State. 

The  solution  which  remains  to  be 
considered,  and  which  the  course  of 
the  argument  has  gradually  brought 
into  view,  is  the  doctrine  of  State- 
control  or  State-regulation  of  industry 
according  to  the  best  ideas  and  know- 
ledge attainable  at  the  time.  This,  in 
distinction  from  the  others,  may  be 
called  the  political  solution.  It  is  un- 
touched by  any  of  the  arguments  that 
have  been  fatal  to  the  rest.  In  essence, 
it  is  the  doctrine  that  has  been  in- 
stinctively acted  upon  both  in  ancient 
and  modern  States.  When  a  mis- 
taken industrial  policy  was  pursued  in 
the  past,  this  was  not  because  the 
State  failed  to  recognise  the  limits  of 
its  own  general  sphere  of  action,  but 


because  it  was  ignorant  of  some  par- 
ticular law  of  economics.    The  remedy 
is  not  to  exclude  as  many  industrial 
questions  as  possible  from  the  sphere 
of  State-action,  but  to  gain  the  most 
accurate  knowledge  of  the  conditions 
of  particular   problems  and    then   to 
apply  it  both  negatively  and  positively; 
and  not  simply  for  the  maintenance 
of  prosperity,  but  for  the  transforma- 
tion of   the  industrial  system  itself.' 
This  does  not  imply  State-ownership 
of  all  capital,  which  is  the  socialistic 
solution  ;  but  it  implies  that  no  limit 
shall  be  recognised  to  the  action   of 
the   State   upon  industry  except  the 
knowledge  that  action   would  be   in- 
jurious to  the  Commonwealth.    Where 
there  is  doubt  there  may  be  action  or' 
abstinence  from  action   according   to 
the  probabilities  of    the  case.     At  a 
time  like  the  present,  when  the  indus- 
trial system  is  comparatively  plastic, 
the   bias   ought   to   be   in   favour  of 
action. 

Thomas  Whittaker. 


225 


A  LONDON  ROSE. 


Diana,  take  this  London  rose, 

Of  crimson  grace  for  your  pale  hand.. 

Who  love  all  loveliness  that  grows  : 

A  London  rose — ah,  no  one  knows, 
A  penny  bought  it  in  the  Strand ! 

But  not  alone  for  heart's  delight; 

The  red  has  yet  a  deeper  stain 
For  your  kind  eyes  that,  late  by  night. 
Grew  sad  at  London's  motley  sight 

Beneath  the  gaslit  driving  rain. 

And  now  again  I  fear  you  start 

To  find  that  sorry  comedy 
Re-written  on  a  rose's  heart : 
'Tis  yours  alone  to  read  apart. 

Who  have  such  eyes  to  weep  and  see. 

Soon  rose  and  rhyme  must  die  forgot. 
But  this,  Diana  —ah,  who  knows  ! — 
May  die,  yet  live  on  in  your  thought 
Of  London's  fate,  and  his  who  bought 
For  love  of  you  a  London  rose. 

Ernest  Rhys. 


No.  387. — VOL.  Lxv. 


226 


THE    FOUR    STUDENTS. 


A  BARE  attic  room ;  on  a  wooden 
table  one  candle  only  in  a  wooden 
candlestick,  and  the  candle  was  in 
snufP.  Raynaud  paused  in  his  reading 
for  the  bad  light,  and  Gavaudun 
snuffed  the  wick  with  his  fingers. 
Then  they  all  remained  for  a  moment 
pensive,  listenin.^  to  the  sounds  of  the 
night.  For  the  wind  had  arisen  again, 
and  the  leaded  windows  rattled ;  and 
from  below  came  the  monotonous  low 
groan  of  the  street  lamp  swaying  to 
and  fro  upon  its  chain.  The  room, 
which  the  four  students  shared  in 
common,  contained  little  else  save 
their  four  truckle-beds,  beside  each  of 
which  stood  a  pail  for  washing  pur- 
poses. There  were  four  chairs  and 
the  wooden  table,  round  three  sides  of 
which  they  were  sitting,  close  against 
the  fire,  for  the  night  was  bitterly 
cold.  Blank  darkness  looked  in  upon 
them  through  the  two  lattice  windows, 
which  had  neither  shutter  nor  blind. 
The  house  had  once  been  a  hotel  stand- 
ing in  its  own  grounds,  but  was  now 
compressed  into  the  Rue  Pot-de-Fer, 
close  to  the  comer  where  that  street  ran 
into  the  Rue  des  Postes.  It  lay  in  the 
quarter  much  frequented  by  Parisian 
students,  just  outside  that  densely 
packed  district  known  in  those  days 
as  r  University  At  the  end  of  their 
street,  beyond  its  junction  with  the  Rue 
des  Postes  and  at  the  end  of  the  Rue 
des  Postes  itself,  stood  two  of  the  thou- 
sand barriers  which  shut  in  Paris 
proper. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1787.  The 
world  without,  though  these  four 
recked  little  of  it,  was  in  a  ferment, 
nominally  because  the  King's  Minister, 
Lom^nie  de  Brienne,  was  at  logger- 
heads with  the  Parliament  of  Paris ; 
really  because  the  times  were  big  with 
much  greater  issues  which  no  man 
then  foresaw. 

The  wind  softened  a  little,  the  win- 


dows rattled  less,  and  Raynaud  took 
up  his  book  again.     It   was  a   book 
which  he  had  bought  that  day  off  a 
stall  on  the  Petit  Pont.     Le  Bossu  du 
Petit  Pont,  as  the  keeper  of  the  stall 
was  called,  was  a  familiar  figure   to 
most  of  the  students  of  that  quarter. 
On   examination  it  proved  to  be  the 
work    De  Invocatione   Spvritunmi,  by 
Johannes   Moguntiensis,   or   John  of 
Menz  ;  a  man  whom  Cornelius  Agrippa 
speaks  of  several  times  in  his  Philoao- 
phia  Occulta,  and  in  his  familiar  letters, 
as  having  been  in  some  sort  his  mas- 
ter.    Raynaud  read  on,  and  the  others, 
— Sommarel,  Gavaudun,  Tourret — lis- 
tened rather  languidly  to  the  Latin  of 
the  magician,  as  he  set  forth  the  pro- 
cesses by  which  might  be  formed  be- 
tween two,  three,  or  four  persons  (but 
best  of  all  if  they  were  four)  a  mystic 
chain  so  called,  "each  one  with   the 
others,"  and  how  the  supernal  powers 
were  to  be  conjured  to  aid  the  work. 
The  author  was  at  once  prolix  and  ob- 
scure ;  and  none  of  the  four,  not  even 
the  reader,  paid  strict  attention  to  his 
words. 

"  But,  hold  ! ''  said  Tourret ;  "  what 
did  you  say?  In  Vigild  Natwitaiis — 
why  it  is  precisely  the  Eve  of  Noel 
that  we  are  in  to-night." 

"  And  so  it  is  !  If  we  were  to  try 
the  charm  ?  "  said  Gavaudun. 

"  Excellent !  we  will  do  so." 

"  John  of  Menz  come  to  our  aid  ! " 
said  Sommarel,  folding  his  hands. 

"  Tush  !  You  don't  invoke  John  of 
Menz,"  said  Gavaudun.  "  Let  me  see, 
whom  have  we  got  to  call  upon  %  " 

"Oh,  Diahohis,  I  suppose,  or  the 
Anima  Mundi,  the  Soul  of  the  World," 
said  Tourret. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Gavaudun,  who 
had  taken  up  the  book. 

Glad  of  a  little  change  they  all  rose 
up.  "  We  have  to  inscribe  a  pentacle, 
the  Pentacle  of  Mars,  on  the  floor," 


The  Four  Students. 


227 


said  Raynaud.  "  Then  prick  our  arms 
and  transfer  the  blood  from  one  vein 
to  another,  he  directs." 

*'  No,  you  say  the  incantation  or 
conjuration  first,"  said  Gavaudun,  as 
he  turned  back  to  an  earlier  page. 
As  he  did  so  a  sort  of  tune  seemed  to 
be  running  in  his  head.  They  scratched 
the  pentacle  on  the  floor  with  a  rusty 
iron  nail,  and  each  took  his  stand  in 
one  of  the  angles.  Then  Gavaudun 
shouted  out  the  conjuration  : — "  I  con- 
jure and  require  you, — Ja,  Pa,  Asmo- 
dai,  Aleph,  Beleph,  Adonai,  Gormo, 
Mormo,  Sadai,  Galzael,  Asrael,  Tan- 
gon,  Mangon,  Porphrael  I  "  It  was 
not  precisely  thus  that  the  words  were 
written  ;  but  they  seemed  to  come  out 
of  his  mouth  in  this  sort  of  chant; 
and  all  the  four  took  it  up  and  sang, 
"  Galzael,  Asrael,  Tangon,  Mangon, 
Porphrael ! "  till  the  roof  echoed.  Then 
they  stopped  suddenly  and  stared  at 
one  another.  They  were  all  in  a 
sweat;  but  each  one  laughed.  Of 
course  that  was  part  of  the  joke  ;  the 
other  three  had  been  roaring  like  that 
for  a  joke,  but  each  one  felt  that  for 
himself  the  chanting  had  been  a  mere 
contagion,  had  come  out  of  him  with- 
out his  will. 

"  0  V08  omnes,  spiritvs  terreni, 
invocamus  et  convocamtia  vosf  Ye 
spirits  of  the  earth,  we  call  and 
conjure  you  I  Be  ye  our  aiders  and 
confederates,  and  fulfil  whatever  we 
demand  !  '*  Gavaudun  with  a  solemn 
mien  pronounced  this  prayer.  "  Now 
for  the  drop  of  blood ! "  And  he 
turned  round  to  the  table  to  re-read 
the  passage  of  John  of  Menz.  He 
seemed  to  take  the  lead  now,  while 
Raynaud  did  everything  in  a  reluctant, 
half -mechanical  way  as  one  walking  in 
his  sleep.  They  had  all  been  sitting 
without  their  coats,  as  the  custom  was 
in  those  days ;  two  in  loose  dressing- 
gowns,  one  in  a  light  jacket,  and  one 
in  shirt  sleeves.  As  they  stood  in  the 
pentacle  they  took  off  these  outer  gar- 
ments, or  turned  up  the  sleeves  of 
them  to  bare  their  arms.  Each  one 
made  with  his  pen-knife  or  stiletto  a 
small  incision  in  his  arm,  a  little  blood 


was  squeezed  out,  according  to  the  pre- 
scription, and  exchanged  against  a 
drop  of  blood  from  his  neighbour's 
arm,  which,  as  well  as  it  might  be, 
was  conducted  into  the  wound  made 
to  receive  it.  It  took  time ;  for  each 
one  had  to  make  the  exchange  with 
his  neighbour  ;  each  had  to  make  two 
pricks  upon  his  arm,  for  only  so  could 
he  be  sure  that  he  had  not  squeezed 
out  again  the  foreign  blood  jiist  im- 
ported. 

"  Quick ! "  said  Sommarel.  "  It  is 
near  twelve,  and  >  the  whole  must  be 
done  on  the  Eve  of  the  Nativity." 

"  There  ought  to  be  five  of  us,*'  said 
Tourret,  "  to  fill  all  the  five  angles." 

"  No ;  it  specially  says  not  more 
than  four.  I  suppose  the  Terrestrial 
Spirit,  whose  names  we  have  been  re- 
citing, fills  up  the  fifth  angle." 

"  Why  Raynaud  and  I  have  not 
exchanged  yet,"  said  Gavaudun,  as  the 
others  held  out  their  hands  to  complete 
the  mystic  circle. 

"  Bon  Dieu,  we  cannot  wait  any 
longer.     You  see  it  is  just  twelve." 

^ey  linked  hands  and  shouted  once 
more  in  chorus  and  to  the  self-same 
chant  :  "  Ja,  Pa,  Asmodai,  Aleph  ^ 
Beleph,  Adonai,  Gormo,  Mormo,  Sadai," 
and  the  rest.  Louder  and  louder 
they  caUed,  the  sweat  pouring  down 
their  foreheads.  A  wanderer  of  the 
night,  supperless  in  the  bitter  cold, 
looked  up  at  their  windows  which 
shone  like  a  high  beacon,  heard  the 
shout,  and  in  his  heart  cursed  those 
jovial  revellers  as  he  supposed  them  to 
be.  Then  from  the  neighbouring 
church  of  St.  Genevieve  rang  over  the 
compact  mass  of  roofs  the  first  notes 
of  the  clock,  and  next  a  chime  of  bells. 
Raynaud  tore  his  hands  from  the 
others ;  a  look  of  terror  was  in  his 
face. 

'^  That  was  famous !  "  said  Sommarel^ 
bursting  into  a  laugh. 

II. 

This  room  in  the  R  Pot-deFe 
was  for  the  four  students  no  more  than 
An  inn  on  the  high  road  of  life.    In  six 

q2 


228 


The  Four  Students. 


months  they  had  separated  again,  and 
gone  their  different  ways.  It  was  now 
nearly  six  years  since  they  had  lived 
together  in  that  room.  Gavaudun  had 
left  Paris  to  become  a  professor  at 
Lille,  and,  young  as  he  still  was,  was 
a  man  already  distinguished.  On  the 
capture  of  Lille  he  had  become  an 
Austrian  subject,  and  had  left  Revolu- 
tionary France  for  ever.  Sommarel 
was  practising  the  law  in  his  native 
town.  Tourret  had  married  a  rich 
wife  and  had  disappeared  from  ken. 
Only  Raynaud  remained  behind  in  the 
old  room. 

Since  the  four  had  parted  the  Re- 
volution had  begun,  and  had  marched 
along  its  appointed  way.  At  first 
Raynaud  had  taken  his  share  in  all 
the  excitement  of  the  time.  He  had 
been  among  the  crowd  when  the  Bas- 
tille fell.  He  had  followed  the  pro- 
<'ession  of  women  to  Versailles,  and 
seen  the  King  carried  to  Paris  in 
triumph.  But  during  the  last  two  years 
all  energy  seemed  to  have  ebbed  from 
him  ;  and  a  fantastic  pageant  of  events 
had  passed  him,  he  himself  taking  no 
part  in  what  was  going  forward,  scarcely 
even  heeding  it.  Time  after  time  the 
faubourg  of  St.  Marcel  hard  by  had 
risen  in  black  wrath,  had  flowed  out 
in  its  thousands  to  meet  St.  Antoine, 
to  meet  the  Marseillais  volunteers,  to 
whirl  and  eddy  round  the  Tuileries  and 
the  Hall  of  the  National  Convention  ; 
or  had  gone  forth  in  frantic  joy  to  take 
part  in  I  know  not  what  Feast  of  the 
Revolution,  Feast  of  Reason,  Fraternal 
Supper,  as  the  occasion  might  be  ;  and 
had  flowed  back  again,  neither  the 
better  nor  the  worse  in  its  every  day 
life  for  all  its  wild  exhibitions  of  rage 
and  hope.  Over  all  this  Raynaud 
looked  from  his  high  citadel  as  if  he 
had  no  concern  in  these  terrene  matters. 
But  his  indifference  was  not  born  of 
[)hiIosopliy,  only  of  a  strange  dulness 
which  he  C'>uld  not  shake  ott'. 

He  had  remained  the  constant  in- 
habitant of  the  same  room.  But  not 
always  its  sole  occupant.  A  succession 
of  persons  had  lain  upon  one  or  other 
of  the  three  tressel-beds  left  vacant  by 


Gavaudun,  Sommarel,  and  Tourret ;  a 
strange  procession  of  beings  emble- 
matical of  the  times  :  esurient  lawyers 
from  the  provinces ;  disfrocked  abhea 
much  given  to  cards ;  Jews  come  to 
deal,  if  it  might  be,  in  assignats  and  the 
domaines  nationaux.  Nor  were  the 
lighter  occupations  of  life  unrepre- 
sented in  these  grim  times.  Not  long 
since  three  players  from  the  The&tre 
de  Lyons  had  been  his  room-fellows. 
One  of  them  had  got  an  engagement  at 
the  Theatre  Frangais  in  the  Rue  de 
Bondi ;  the  other  two  had  come  up  to 
bear  him  company,  and  look  out  for 
work  and  play.  The  last  co-occupant 
of  the  room  had  called  himself  a 
composer.  People  said  that  he  was  in 
reality  a  Royalist  agent,  and  he  had 
been  haled  to  the  guillotine.  Nay, 
but  he  was  a  composer,  whatever  else 
he  might  be ;  for  his  companion  had 
one  or  two  fragments  of  songs  set  to 
music  by  him  which  he  had  left  behind 
in  his  hurry.  Raynaud  was  now  left 
in  his  ancient  room  alone ;  he  himself 
was  under  the  protection  of  Citizen 
Fourmisson,  formerly  barber,  now 
member  of  the  Tribunal  Criminel  R6- 
volutionnaire,  who  lived  in  the  better 
apartments  below,  and  whose  children 
Raynaud  taught.  But  it  was  best  to 
keep  one's  self  to  one's  self  in  these  sus- 
picious days;  and  at  that  moment 
Raynaud  reckoned  not  a  single  friend 
in  Paris. 

Life  had  not  gone  well  with  him. 
He  was  thinking  this  as,  one  winter 
afternoon,  he  returned  to  his  room 
after  giving  his  accustomed  lesson  on 
the  floor  below,  and  in  spite  of  the  cold 
stood  for  a  moment  gazing  out  from 
his  window  over  the  view  of  plots  and 
cottages  and  distant  woods  which  it 
showed.  The  houses  and  cottages  had 
become  more  frequent,  the  patches  of 
land  fewer,  during  the  last  six  years  ; 
for  the  faubourg  had  grown  consider- 
ably. Raynaud  noticed  this  much ; 
he  knew  nothing  about  the  changes 
in  the  rest  of  Paris.  During  the  last 
three  years  he  had  never  once  crossed 
the  river.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
changed  appearance   of   the   Qua!   de 


The  Fmtr  Students. 


221> 


Gr^ve  since  the  conflagration,  nothing 
of  the  new  names  which  had  been 
bestowed  upon  the  parts  of  Paris  near 
the  Tuileries.  Above  all  he  had  never 
been  to  the  Place  de  la  Revolution,  nor 
seen  the  altar  raised  to  the  new  patron 
saint  of  the  City  of  Paris,  la  Sainte 
Guillotine.  Certainly  this  indifference 
\o  the  growth  of  the  Kepublic,  One  and 
Indivisible,  was  in  itself  a  thing  suspect. 
But  Citizen  Fourmisson  had  his  reasons 
for  wishing  to  retain  the  services  of  the 
dreamy  young  tutor. 

No  ;  life  had  not  gone  well  with  him. 
Citizen  Fourmisson  paid  his  salary 
chiefly  in  the  protection  which  his 
august  name  afforded.  What  Raynaud 
lived  upon  was  a  pittance  due  to  him 
from  his  brother  Gilbert,  who  cul- 
tivated the  few  patrimonial  acres  of 
Les  Colom biers.  "  Why  do  I  linger  on 
here?"  Raynaud  thought,  or  half- 
thought.  **  What  value  is  protection 
to  a  life  so  colourless  as  mine  ?  "  But 
then  he  realised  that  if  he  did  talk 
of  going,  Fourmisson  would  without 
doubt  denounce  liim  at  once.  He 
thought  of  his  last  chamber-companion 
Bri^onnet,  the  musician,  the  only  one 
with  whom  he  had  made  any  sort  of 
friendship;  of  the  knocking  which  had 
mingled  with  Eaynaud's  dreams  on 
that  morning  when  the  sergents  de 
ville  came  to  carry  the  poor  composer 
oft*  to  the  Luxembourg  hard  by  ;  of  the 
man's  white  face  when  he  awoke,  of 
how  he  had  clutched  at  the  bedstead 
and  screamed  to  Raynaud  to  come  to 
his  help.  The  sergeants  had  searched 
everywhere,  had  ripped  open  the  bed, 
but  so  far  as  Raynaud  could  see  they 
had  found  nothing  but  scores  of  music. 
Most  of  the  music  they  had  carried 
away,  but  some  scattered  sheets  re- 
mained. One  contained  the  .netting  of 
a  song  by  the  unhappy  Berthier  de 
Saint  Maur,  who  had  been  before  then 
as  little  known  to  Raynaud  as  he  was 
for  long  after  to  the  English  reader 
until,  not  long  since,  a  critic  unearthed 
him  and  translated  some  of  his  songs. 
It.  was  a  verse  from  tlie  song  of  Le 
Pelerin  which  was  ruuning  in  Ray- 
naud's head  now : 


Alone,  alone,  no  mortal  thing  so  nmcli 
Alone  !  The  eagle  captured  from  the  hills  ; 
The  solitary  chouan  when  lie  fills 
The  air  with  discord  ;  the  ca.«»t  mariner, 
AVhat  time  the  spar  parts  from  his  frozen 

clutch, 
Are  not  so  lone  as  I, — ah  no,  sweet  sir  I 

Raynaud  even  tried  to  sing  the 
tune,  as  he  had  heard  BriQonnet  sing 
it.  Singing  was  not  in  his  way  ;  he 
got  nowhere  near  the  air ;  rather 
the  words  came  out  in  an  unearthlv 
chant. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  was  brought 
back  to  the  scene  in  this  very  room, 
six  years  before,  when  he  and  the 
three  others  had  chanted  together  a 
magic  formula  out  of  a  book  by, — by, 
— he  forgot  the  name.  The  whole 
scene  rose  before  his  eyes  ;  then  faded 
as  (juickly.  No  ;  his  life  had  not 
gone  well  since  then.  He  had  in  those 
ambitious  student  days  (he  had  always 
passed  then  for  the  cleverest  of  the 
four)  planned  that  great  work  on  the 
Comite  des  Nations,  an  extension  of 
the  doctrine  of  the  social  contract  into 
the  domain  of  national  law.  It  was 
to  inaugurate  a  new  era.  The  plan 
of  the  book  and  its  very  name  were 
identical  with  those  of  the  work  which 
Gavaudun  had  actually  published  in 
these  yea.»'s ;  and  which  even  in 
the  times  in  which  they  lived  had 
made  him  famous.  Had  Gavaudun 
taken  his  idea?  Had  he,  Raynaud, 
left  much  on  record  ?  Had  he  ex- 
pounded it  fully  in  those  days  1  He 
could  not  remember  now ;  but  he 
thought  he  had  drawn  it  all  out  later. 
Yet  it  could  not  be  so  ;  Gavaudun 
must  have  stolen  the  thought  from 
him.  But  his  spirits  felt  too  dulled  to 
allow  of  his  feeling  active  resentment- 
even  for  such  a  piece  of  plagiarism  a.s 
that. 

Then  Tourret ;  that  was  strangei- 
still.  Tourret  had  acted  out  in  real 
life  what  had  been  Raynaud's  dream. 
He  had  almost  from  boyhood  had  that 
romance  in  his  mind.  How  he  was  to 
be  riding  along  the  dangerous  way 
where  the  main  road  to  Tours  branches 
off  from  the  Orleans  road,  there  where 


230 


The  Four  Students, 


the  disused  water-mill  peeps  out  from 
among  the  trees, — that  mill  was  al- 
ways thought  to  be  a  rendezvous  for 
foot-pads  ;  how  he  was  to  overhear  the 
two  men  planning  the  seizure  of  an 
approaching  vehicle,  was  to  ride  past 
them  receiving  a  shot  through  his  hat 
(he  remembered  all  the  details),  was  to 
meet  the  coach  in  which  sat  an  old 
father  and  a  beautiful  young  daughter, 
to  ride  up  (in  imminent  danger  again 
of  being  shot)  and  give  them  warn- 
ing. Alas,  too  late,  for  here  are  the 
two  upon  us  !  But  the  old  father  fires, 
he,  Raynaud,  fires,  and  the  two  rogues 
fall.  But  what  if  more  are  coming? 
So  he  offers  his  own  horse  to  the  father, 
and  the  daughter  rides  on  pillion  be- 
hind, Eaynaud  and  the  coachman  driv- 
ing after  at  the  best  rate  they  can 
make.  The  result,  the  eternal  grati- 
tude of  the  father  and  his,  Raynaud's, 
ultimate  marriage  to  the  beautiful 
heiress.  Such  had  l>een  Raynaud's 
romance,  elaborated  in  every  detail. 
And  three  years  ago  it  had  fallen  to 
Tourret  actually  to  do  this  thing  !  The 
robbers  from  whom  Tourret  saved  his 
future  father-in-law  were  not  common 
highwaymen,  but  two  from  the  terrible 
band  of  the  cJiauffeurSf  wherefore  his 
heroism  had  been  the  greater.  Tourret 
had  married  the  heiress,  and  had,  it 
was  thought,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
troubles  found  his  way  out  of  France 
to  Switzerland. 

No  ;  not  well.  And  last  night  he 
had  dreamt  that  a  great  treasure  had 
been  found  on  the  farm  at  Les  Colom- 
biers.  The  dream  was  so  vivid  that 
even  after  he  woke  he  had  been  specu- 
lating what  he  should  do  with  the 
money,  what  new  life  he  should  lead. 
But  now  that  his  thoughts  had  run 
back  into  their  accustomed  sombre 
<*hannel  he  saw  things  in  a  different 
light.  He  professed  to  be  an  en- 
lightened thinker  ;  but  no  small  mea- 
sure of  rustic  superstition  lingered  in 
Ids  mind.  Dreaming  of  a  treasure  he 
knew  was  reckoned  a  bad  omen.  Who 
knows  what  it  might  portend  ? 

Musing  of  all  these  things  Raynaud 
ilescended  to  take  his  walk.     As  he 


passed  along  the  passage  at  the  bottom 
of  the  house  the  concierge  stopped  him 
with  the  familiar  and,  as  we  should 
call  it,  insolent  action  which  one 
citizen  used  to  another  in  those  days, 
and  always  emphasised  if  he  had  to  do 
with  a  man  better  born  and  better 
educated  than  himself. 

"  A  despatch  for  you,  citizen,' '  he  said . 
The  lower  floor  of  this  old  hotel  was 
now  a  wine-shop,  and  the  two  or  three 
men  in  the  room  were  grouped  to- 
gether examining  a  rather  official-look- 
ing envelope  bound  round  with  a  cord 
and  sealed  with  black  wax. 

"  Here  is  the  citizen  for  the  letter," 
said  the  concierge ;  and  the  man  who 
was  actuaUy  holding  it  handed  the 
envelope  to  the  porter  without  apology 
and  without  rising.  "Good  luck  to 
the  citizen  with  his  letter,"  he  said, 
turning  back  to  the  table  to  take  up 
his  glass. 

The  others  laughed  a  little,  and  all 
eyed  Raynaud  rather  curiously  as  he 
broke  the  seals.  The  idea  of  Govern- 
ment was  in  those  days  almost  syn* 
onymous  with  the  idea  of 'Death.  There- 
fore even  an  envelope  with  an  official 
seal  upon  it,  especially  if  the  seal  were 
black,  suggested  the  vague  possibility 
either  that  the  citizen  who  received  it 
was  going  to  be  guillotined  himself,  or 
else  that  one  of  his  rel.itives  had  been 
— not  here  in  Paris,  perhaps,  but  down 
in  the  country. 

Raynaud  with  the  thoughts  that  had 
been  running  in  his  head  could  not 
help  turning  pale  as  he  opened  the 
letter.  But  it  proved  to  be  of  a  very 
inoffensive  character,  though  for  some 
reason  the  Bureau  of  Police  had 
thought  fit  to  open  and  read  it  and 
seal  it  up  again  in  this  official  manner. 
It  was  from  Raynaud's  brother  Gil- 
bert. "My  dear  brother,"  he  wrote. 
"The  agriculture  marches  very  ill 
here,  no  doubt  in  great  measure  be- 
cause of  the  plots  of  Pitt  and  of  the 
enemies  of  the  Republic ;  but  also  be- 
cause the  workmen  work  not  very  wil- 
lingly and  there  are  not  enough 
mJetayere  to  be  found.  It  has  hap- 
pened  that  my   brother-in-law   Emile 


The  Four  Students, 


231 


Plaidoyer  has  lately  died.  Wherefore 
my  father-in-law  writes  to  offer  me  to 
work  with  him  upon  his  farm  of 
Ouibrauche  in  Plessis-le-P^lerin,  where 
he  prospers  better  than  I.  Now  pre- 
cisely at  this  moment  comes  an  offer 
from  Maistre  Sommarel  of  Tours  to 
buy  Les  Colombiers.  He  offers  a  good 
price  for  it,  seven  thousand  livres. 
Wherefore  if  thou  consent,  my  dear 
brother,  the  bargain  shall  be  made  and 
the  instruments  drawn  up.  D.G.  Thy 
brother,  Gilbert."  D.G.  was  the  near- 
est that  those  who  still  possessed  reli- 
gion dared  put  for  the  ordinary  saluta- 
tion, Dieu  te  garde. 

Curious;  Raynaud's  dream  of  last 
night  come  true,  after  a  fashion  !  Only 
unhappily  the  treasure  of  which  the 
dream  spoke  was  diminished  to  this 
miserable  sum  of  seven  thousand  livres, 
of  which  only  the  moiety  would  come 
to  him.  That  at  any  rate  was  worth 
having.  To-morrow  he  would  write  to 
Gilbert  authorising  him  to  complete 
the  sale.  With  that  he  issued  into  the 
street. 

III. 

There   was   very   little  variety  in 
Raynaud's  walks.     They  took  place  at 
the  same  time,  that  is  at  the  comple- 
tion of  his  afternoon's  lessons  with  his 
pupils,  and    therefore  at  this    winter 
season  just  about  the  hour  of   dusk. 
They  never  extended  outside  a  short 
radius  from  his  lodging,  and  generally 
comprised  some  sort  of  a  circle  round 
Mount  St.  Genevieve.    Up  the  Rue  des 
Postes,  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Genevieve, 
down    the  Rue   Mouffetard,  the  Rue 
Bordet,  till  he  reached  the  Place  du  Pan- 
theon ;  this  was  his  route  to-day.     He 
extracted  a  certain  dull  pleasure  from 
the  sight  of  these  familiar  streets  grow- 
ing dusky  in  the  gathering  night.  They 
made  an  image  for  him  of  the  fading  of 
all  things,  all  worldly  ambitions  and 
troubles  into  the  same  dull  twilight  of 
the  tomb  ;  an  image  or  half-image,  for 
his  thoughts    themselves   had    grown 
<Hm    and  as  it    were    muffled    in    his 
brain. 

But  to-night  he  was  roused   up   a 


little,  cheered  by  the  letter  which  he 
had  got  from  Gilbert.  "  Maistre  Som- 
marel, Sommarel,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  reviewed  the  letter  in  his  mind. 
"Likely  enough  that  is  my  old  com- 
rade Sommarel.  He  was  a  Tour- 
rainais  like  myself;  I  know  that. 
Everything  seems  to  bring  back  those 
days  to  me  this  evening."  The  scene 
of  their  last  Christmas  Eve  came  once 
more  distinctly  before  his  mind.  "  And, 
2>ar  Dieu/'^  he  thought  to  himself, 
"  if  this  is  not  also  Christmas  Eve  !  "  . 
The  Christian  religion  had  been 
abolished,  and  the  months  and  the 
days  of  the  month  had  been  changed  ; 
so  that  it  took  Raynaud  a  minute  to 
remember  that  this,  the  fourth  of 
Nivose,  was  in  "  slave-style "  the 
twenty-fourth  of  December.  But,  as 
he  walked,  the  words  of  the  old  in- 
cantation came  back  to  him,  and  under 
his  breath  he  kept  on  humming,  to 
the  self-same  chant  that  they  had 
used,  the  meaningless  invocation, — 
"Ja,  Pa,  Asmodai,  Aleph,  Beleph, 
Adonai,  Gormo,  Mormo,  Sadai ! "  It 
was  sad  nonsense. 

At  this    moment   he   was   passing 
lalong  the  little  street  of  St.  Etienne 
des   Gres,   near   the   church   of    that 
name.     He  vaguely  remembered  that 
some  years  before  some  antiquarian 
studies  which  he  had  been  making  on 
pre-Roman  Paris  and   its  neighbour- 
hood had  given  him  a  special  interest 
in  the  site  of  this  little  church  of  St. 
Etienne ;    and    that   he    had    always 
meant  to  go  into  it,  but  had  never 
done  so.     Since  then  he  had  forgotten 
his  wish.     He  had  no  doubt  passed 
the  insignificant  building  a  hundred 
times   in   his  walks,  but  had   never 
thought   of  entering.      Religion   had 
now  been  abolished,  and  the  churches 
were  all  closed.     Raynaud  presumed 
so  at  least,  but  he  thought  he  might 
at  any  rate  try  this  one.     He  found 
to  his  surprise  that  the  handle  would 
turn, — after   an  effort,  rustily.     The 
door  swung  complainingly  open  and 
he  went  in. 

The  place  had  not  been  used  for  a 
year.     It  was  colder  than  the  tomb. 


232 


The  Fmir  Stiodents. 


Spiders  and  dust  in  partnership  had 
hung  ropes  from  pillar  to  pillar  ;  rats 
had  been  busy  with  the  woodwork ; 
a  bat  or  two  had  found  its  way 
through  a  broken  pane  in  the  win- 
dows and  built  nests  in  the  organ-loft 
and  the  rood-screen.  Raynaud  walked 
forward  towards  the  apse  in  whose 
windows  the  light  was  beginning  to 
fade.  What  a  pity  that  he  had  not 
happened  to  have  looked  up  his  old 
notes,  so  as  to  know  why  he  had 
.once  specially  wished  to  stand  inside 
this  church  of  St.  Etienne  des  Gres. 
But  how  curious  that  he  should  have 
so  utterly  forgotten  those  anti- 
quarian studies  of  three  years  gone, 
and  that  they  should  come  back  to 
him  now.  Quite  a  flood  of  things 
seemed  to  be  coming  back  to  him. 
Was  he  in  a  dream  now,  or  had  he 
been  in  one  through  these  last  three 
years  1  Only  give  him  time  and  he 
would  remember  everything. 

"  I  am,"  it  said. 

It  said — what  said  ?  Raynaud  coultl 
have  sworn  that  no  one  spoke.  And 
yet  there  again,  "I  am  and  I  wasj" 
and  it  was  as  if  the  air  laughed 
silently.  *'  Who  are  you  V  he  cried. 
But  there  was  no  answer,  and  he 
expected  none.  For  he  knew  that  he 
had  heard  no  sound. 

Then  he  gave  a  sudden  start,  and 
his  heart  beat  against  his  ribs,  and 
the  sweat  gathered  on  his  forehead. 
For  almost  as  if  in  answer  to  his 
invocation  there  came  a  sound  from 
far  off,  a  sound  of  footsteps  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer.  Raynaud  cowered 
down,  suddenly  unnerved ;  and  yet 
there  was  nothing  supernatural  in 
what  he  heard.  The  steps  came  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  a  crowd  of  men  and 
women  (passing  by  chance  that  way 
trom  a  day  spent  in  the  Place  de  la 
Revolution)  bui'st  into  the  church, — 
figures  not  to  be  seen  to-day  save  in  a 
nightmare  :  haggard,  long-toothed  wo- 
men with  black  hair  or  grey,  tangled 
and  lank,  streaming  down  beside  their 
cheeks ;  blear-eyed  men,  drunk,  not 
with  wine,  but  with  a  new  intoxica- 


tion to  which  men  had  net  yet  given 
a  name,  the  intoxication  of  blood. 
They  had  come  that  way  by  chance, 
and  seeing  the  church-door  open  had 
run  in.  But  as  they  advanced  up  the 
aisle  their  step  changed  into  a  dance. 
They  caught  hold  of  one  another  and 
danced  up  the  aisle,  up  to  the  chancel, 
up  to  the  altar  itself,  throwing  up 
their  feet,  their  arms,  clasping  one 
another,  whirling  and  whirling  round. 
They  shook  the  rood-screen,  shook 
down  ropes  of  cobwebs  from  the  high 
roof,  shook  the  organ-loft,  till  the 
organ  itself  emitted  a  dull  sound,  half- 
groan,  half-wail.  Then  they  danced 
out,  and  silence,  as  ghost-like  as  be- 
fore, fell  on  the  deserted  church.  But 
the  dance  which  had  seized  upon  them 
there  went  with  them  out  into  the 
street.  It  was  caught  up  by  others  and 
grew,  and  gi^ew  into  a  wild  infection, 
a  Dance  of  Death.  It  was  called  the 
Carmagnole. 

Raynaud  was  left  once  more  alone. 
And  again  the  Air  spake :  "  Swaying 
and  whirling,"  it  said,  "  whirling  and 
swaying;"  and  then  again,  "I  did 
it;"  and  once  again  the  Silence 
laughed. 

Raynaud  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  he  cried  out  in  a  tone  which  sur- 
prised even  himself, — **  Speak  !  Who 
are  you  1  I  command  you  to  speak  !  " 
But  there  was  no  answer. 

Then  it  was  as  if  a  wind  blew 
through  the  church,  and,  yes,  Raynaud 
heard  the  rustling  of  boughs  above, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  moon  were 
struggling  to  shine  through  branches 
far  overhead.  It  was  but  a  moment- 
ary vision  ;  again  he  was  alone  in  the 
church,  and  grey  evening  was  changing 
into  night. 

*'Ye  Spirits  of  the  Earth,"  said 
Raynaud  half  mechanically,  as  the  old 
conjuration  came  into  his  head ;  "I 
call  and  conjure  you  !  Be  ye  my 
aiders  and  confederates,  and  fulfil 
whatsoever  I  demand  ! " 

'*  I  am  and  I  was,*'  said  the  voice- 
less Voice,  and  laughed  again.  But 
Raynaud  no  longer  wondered  what 
it  meant,  for  the  voice  was  within  him. 


The  Four  Students. 


233 


IV. 

In  the  morning,  long  before  dawn, 
Haynaud  left  his  lodgirg.  The  porter 
was  noddinof  by  the  door,  and  one  man 
was  asleep  in  the  wine-shop  with  his 
head  upon  the  table  and  a  candle 
guttering  in  its  iron  saucer  close  be- 
side him,  sending  forth  much  smoke 
and  an  evil  smell.  Raynaud  undid 
the  fastenings  of  the  door  softly  and 
stole  out.  A  bitter  wind  met  him ; 
some  moist  snow  was  lying  thinly 
between  the  cobble-stones,  and  a  few 
flakes  were  still  falling.  He  passed 
with  quick  footsteps  down  the  echoing 
Rue  des  Postes  into  the  Rue  St. 
Jacques,  down  and  down,  to  places 
he  had  not  trodden  for  years,  over  the 
Petit  Pont  into  the  Cite,  and  thence 
to  the  north  side  of  the  river.  It  was 
years  since  he  had  been  there,  and 
many  things  were  new  to  him.  The 
Quai  de  la  Greve  had  been  recon- 
structed since  the  conflagration ;  the 
last  building  on  the  Petit  Pont  had 
fallen.  But  Raynaud  paid  little  heed 
to  these  things,  nor  yet  to  the  river 
which  he  had  not  seen  for  so  long,  nor 
to  the  numberless  barges  laden  chiefly 
with  wood  which  lay  upon  the  stream, 
nor  the  piles  of  wood  all  along  its 
southern  bank.  From  the  Quai  de  la 
Greve  he  passed  along  the  Quai  de  la 
Megisserie,  then  along  the  Quai  du 
Louvre,  the  Quai  des  Tuileries,  until 
finally  the  Quai  du  Conference  brought 
him  to  the  goal  of  his  steps,  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution. 

The  Place  was  never  free  fiom 
loiterers  night  or  day.  Bitter  as  was 
the  morning  many  were  there  now, 
sitting  upon  the  steps  which  led  up  to 
the  teriiice  of  the  Tuileries.  In  the 
faint  moonlight  they  looked  more  like 
black  shadows  than  men.  For  a  moon 
far  gone  in  the  wane  gleamed  faintly 
over  the  trees  to  the  north  of  the 
Place.  And  now,  from  where  Raynaud 
paused  for  a  moment  to  look  about 
him,  an  object  which  he  had  never 
seen  before  stood  between  him  and 
the  moon,  a  square  open  scaffolding 
mounted  upon  a  sort  of  rostrum.     It 


was  the  guillotine !  All  round  the 
rostrum  hung  a  little  group  of  men. 
There  were  some  guards  between  them 
and  the  erection  itself,  but  not  many, 
and  they  did  not  exercise  their  autho- 
rity with  much  vigour  to  keep  men 
from  perching  themselves  upon  the 
lower  posts  and  under  the  bars  of  the 
construction.  Raynaud  without  further 
pause  pushed  straight  for  this  crowd, 
and  tried  to  elbow  his  way  as  near  as 
might  be  to  the  guillotine.  His  dress 
was  undistinguished  from  that  of  any 
other  member  of  the  crowd.  He  wore 
a  rough  black  coat  of  a  sort  of  shag  or 
frieze,  black  breeches  of  the  same  ma- 
terial. His  waistcoat  was  red,  with  a 
blue  and  white  stripe  across  it ;  his 
feet  were  shod  with  sabots,  and  he 
wore  a  red  cotton  nightcap  on  his 
head.  That  was  the  safest  dress  for 
any  man  to  wear  in  those  times.  When 
however  Raynaud  set  to  work  to  elbow 
his  way  too  pertinaciously  to  a  good 
place  near  the  guillotine,  the  crowd 
began  to  murmur,  and  as  their  eyes 
lighted  upon  his  delicate  white  hands 
they  began  to  bandy  jests  upon  him  in 
which  an  ear  accustomed  to  the  times 
would  have  recognised  danger. 

"It  is  well  to  be  a  good  patriot, 
citizen,'"  said  a  little  man  standing 
beside  a  large  fat  woman  ;  '*  but 
let  others  be  good  patriots  too." 
"'CVe  nom,  oui^'  growled  another. 
"  Some  come  to  hi  ffihre  for  one  thing, 
some  for  another,"  said  the  fat  woman 
enigmatically.  **  The  citizen  has  not 
come  expecting  to  meet  a  friend,  jxvr 
exem2)le  ?  "  said  a  fourth  speaker,  set- 
ting himself  directly  in  Raynaud's 
way.  "  Not  a  ci-devant,  for  instance?  " 
"  Not  come  to  pay  respects  to  the  head 
of  his  family]"  **  Ow  hien  db  la  chef 
de  la  chef  de  safamille,^*  said  a  dullard, 
thinking  that  he  had  seen  the  pun  for 
the  first  time  and  laughing  heavily  at 
his  own  wit.  "  Bon  jour,  monsiev/r  1 
monsieur  !  I  monsieur  /  /  /  "  cried  many 
voices  in  which  shrill  ones  predomi- 
nated, after  Raynaud,  who  despite  of 
all,  and  apparently  not  knowing  what 
was  said  to  him,  had  pushed  and 
squeezed  his  way  some  yards  nearer 


234 


The  Four  Students, 


the  machine.  He  was  just  at  the 
comer  of  the  scafPold.  He  contrived 
to  settle  himself  on  one  of  its  under- 
beams  in  a  sort  of  squatting  attitude 
which  rested  him  a  little,  and  there  he 
remained  quiet  and  awaited  the  day. 
Some  of  the  citizens  who  had  joined 
in  the  gibes  upon  him  continued  for  a 
while  to  growl  threateningly.  Then 
something  else  attracted  their  atten- 
tion and  they  left  him  in  peace. 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  though  nobody 
seemed  very  sensible  of  it.  Now  and 
then  flakes  of  snow  still  drifted  lazily 
through  the  air.  The  moonlight  faded 
in  the  sky,  and  the  grey  sad  face  of 
dawn  began  to  look  forth  through  the 
curtains  of  the  east.  At  last  she 
blushed  a  little  ;  and  between  two 
black  bars,  like  the  bars  of  a  prison- 
window,  the  sun  himself  shot  a  beam 
or  two  across  the  world. 

By  this  time  the  Place  de  la  Revolu- 
tion was  densely  packed.  Almost 
immediately  after  the  sunrise  there 
arose  from  all  the  mass  a  great  sigh  of 
satisfaction  which  shaped  itself  into 
the  words  **  On  vient — on  vient — they 
are  coming  !  "  Then  a  regiment  of 
soldiers  marched  up  and  formed  round 
the  scaffold.  The  crowd  swayed  back- 
wards, crushing  and  swearing.  Ray- 
naud seemed  to  be  unaware  of  what 
was  going  on  till  a  soldier  rather 
roughly  pulled  him  from  his  seat  and 
threw  him  forwards  into  the  crowd. 
The  people,  who  had  jeered  at  him 
before,  laughed  and  began  to  jeer  at 
him  again.  But  now  a  cruel  sound 
was  heard  in  the  distance,  the  roar  of 
an  angry  multitude.  The  excitement 
round  the  guillotine  grew  keener  every 
moment ;  people  pushed  and  swore  and 
tried  to  raise  themselves  above  their 
neighbours.  One  tall  man  who  held  a 
six-year-old  child  upon  his  shoulders 
was  very  conspicuous. 

At  the  first  sound  of  the  distant 
roar  Raynaud  had  raised  his  head  ;  an 
eager  light  shone  in  his  eyes  as  if  he 
was  listening  to  catch  some  definite 
words,  and  presently  his  own  mouth 
opened  and  gave  forth  in  a  monoton- 
ous chant  the  old    invocation :    **  Ja, 


Pa,    Adonai,    Aleph,   Beleph,    Asmo- 
dai.  ..." 

"  What  is  he  saying  ?  He  is  mad," 
said  the  citizens  immediately  round 
him,  eyeing  him  askance.  **  He  is 
giving  i  signal;  it  is  a  plot,"  said 
another.  His  life  at  that  moment 
hung  upon  a  thread ;  but  he  wist  not 
of  it. 

The  roar  had  been  deepening  all 
this  time.  Every  throat  in  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution  began  to  take  up  the 
cries,  which  had  been  running  like 
flame  down  the  streets  and  quays. 
^^  A  bos  les  tyrans/*^  was  the  usual 
cry,  alternating  here  and  there  with 
"  Vive  la  guillotine  /  "  "  Vive  la  R^- 
publiqvs  I "  Some  people  gave  a  lyrical 
turn  to  the  noise  by  chanting  a  stanza 
of  the  Marseillaise  — "  Aux  a/rmes, 
citoyena  /  .  .  .  " 

The  first  tumbril  reached  the  scaf- 
fold, which  the   executioner  mounted 
the  moment  after,  greeted  by  vehement 
cries  of  "  Vive  Sa/mson  !  "  and  the  pro- 
cess of  reading  out  the  names  began, 
which  to  any  one  but  those  quite  close 
to   the    performers    seemed    like    an 
inexplicable   dumb    show.     With    his 
eyes  almost   bursting  from   his   head 
with  wild  excitement  Raynaud  pushed 
and  squeezed  and  sweated  to  get  nearer 
still  to  the  fatal  engine.     For  now  \  he 
first  bound  figure  was  brought  forward 
and   laid   face   downwards    upon   the 
block.       Suddenly   the    noise   in    the 
crowd  died  down,  and  men  held  their 
breaths  to  watch  the  final  act  of  this 
man^s  life-comedy.     There  was  always 
a  special  interest  felt  in  the  first  execu- 
tion  of    each    day.     Men   made   bets 
upon  it  \  whether  the  head  would  leap 
off  straight  into  the  sack,  or  whether 
it   would   just   touch    the   woodwork 
first,  and  eo  forth      What  is  stranger 
still,  the   superstitious  drew  auguries 
from    this    event  ;   as   if    the   world 
(which  in  the  Place  de  la  Revolution 
it  had  done)  had  rolled  two  thousand 
years  backwards  in  its  course. 

Raynaud  was  one  of  the  very  few 
in  the  crowd  who  beheld  an  execution 
for  the  first  time.  His  heart  stood 
still,  but  not  Avith  fear,  to  wait  for  the 


The  Four  Students. 


235 


sound  of  the  descending  steel.  And  then 
— then  it  came.  Men  spoke  often  in 
those  days  of  the  executed  man  sneez- 
ing in  the  sack  of  sawdust.  It  was 
not  merely  a  fanciful  metaphor.  The 
truth  is  that  the  sound  which  Ray- 
naud's ears  now  heard  for  the  first 
time  had  some  grim  resemblance  to  a 
sneeze.  It  was  made  partly  by  the 
swift  hiss  of  the  descending  steel, 
checked  for  a  moment  as  it  shore 
through  the  victim^s  neck,  partly  by 
the  head  falling  into  the  sack  of  saw- 
dust, partly  by  the  gush  of  the  blood 
rushing  forth  when  the  head  was 
severed.  Such  was  the  sound  which 
followed  the  moment's  pause  of  the 
listening  crowd,  and  which  Eaynaud 
heard  for  the  first  time.  And  as  he 
heard  it  the  blood  coursed  again 
through  his  veins,  his  eye  glistened 
with  a  preternatural  brightness,  and 
he  seemed  to  drink  in  new  life. 

The  day  wore  on  ;  Raynaud  had 
eaten  nothing  since  the  previous  night, 
but  he  seemed  to  feel  no  hunger.  One 
after  another  the  tumbrils  discharged 
their  burdens  and  the  bloody  sacrifice 
went  on.  Sacrifice  !  yes,  that  was  the 
word  which  flashed  into  his  mind.  A 
sacrifice  to  whom  or  what  1  An  answer 
to  that  too  seemed  to  lie  somewhere  in 
the  back  of  his  thoughts,  but  he  could 
not  seize  it  then.  The  crowd  around 
him,  which  had  been  formerly  so  sus- 
picious, could  not  help  being  struck  by 
his  look  of  exultation,  and  repented 
itself  of  its  suspicions  And  one  man, 
who  had  not  been  noticed  before,  with 
a  dark  face  and  a  peculiarly  acute  cast 
of  countenance,  was  so  pleased  that  he 
placed  his  hand  on  Raynaud's  shoulder 
with  the  usual  compliment,  "  1  see  you 
are  a  good  patriot,  citizen  !  " 

At  length  the  last  cart  had  been 
emptied  and  a  blaukness  fell  over 
Raynaud's  soul.  It  was  again  dark. 
Quickly  the  crowd  began  to  disperse, 
not  without  wild  cries  and  fraternal 
embraces  and  dancing  of  the  new 
camuignole.  The  acute-faced  man 
came  up  and  spoke  to  Raynaud,  who 
listened  as  if  he  understood,  but 
understood  nothing.     The  other  gave 


him  a  piece  of  his  bread  and  a  frag- 
ment of  sausage.  Then  they  nodded 
and  exchanged  "  good-night,"  and 
Raynaud  walked  away. 


V. 

Raynaud  passed  again  along  the 
quays  and  over  the  Petit  Pont  towards 
his  home.  Suddenly  he  found  himself 
once  more  in  the  little  church  of  St. 
fitienne  des  Gr^s.  The  day  had  been 
long  gone,  and  it  was  colder  than  ever. 
But  the  night  was  clear,  and  the  star- 
light stole  in,  muffled  and  shadowy, 
through  the  east  window  of  the 
church. 

Through  the  east  window, — but 
why  did  the  groining  of  the  window 
seem  to  shake  and  sway  from  side  to 
side?  Why  did  the  air  blow  so  cold 
through  the  church?  There  was  an 
answer  to  this,  Raynaud  knew,  but 
could  not  lay  hold  of  it.  From  the 
organ-loft  (if  it  was  an  organ-loft) 
came  a  sad  sound  like  that  which  the 
wind  makes  through  pine  trees. 
Raynaud  looked  and  looked  into  the 
recesses  —  of  what  1  —  the  church  ? 
Nay ;  but  they  stretched  far  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  church.  It  was  as  if 
he  were  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  forest. 
Dim  star-lit  stems  seemed  to  catch  his 
eye  from  far  distances  girt  round  by 
shadow  ;  and  now  over  his  head  boughs 
were  certainly  waving  to  and  fro. 

Then  a  wild  sort  of  half -chant  filled 
his  ears,  wild  but  very  faint.  He 
could  dimly  fancy  he  caught  the 
voices  of  his  old  comrades,  Gavaudun, 
Sommarel,  Tourret,  in  it ;  at  any  rate 
the  chant  brought  them  in  some  way 
into  his  mind.  And  the  sound  grew 
nearer  and  nearer,  wilder  and  harsher. 
Figures  came  in  sight,  fierce  in  gesture, 
with  unkempt  locks  streaming  down 
their  faces,  clad  in  skins,  brandishing 
spears  on  high,  marching  or  dancing 
forward  in  a  strange  dance.  Then 
there  was  a  crashing  among  the 
branches  and  heavy  wheeled  carts 
rumbled  into  sight,  each  drawn  by  two 
bullocks.  Beside  them  walked  men  in 
white  apparel,  with  fillets  round  their 


236 


Tlie  Four  tiiudents. 


hair.     The  carts  were  full  of  men  and 
women,  who  all  had  their  hands  bound 
behind  them,  in  some  cases  bound  so 
tightly    that     the    withies    had    cut 
through  the  flesh  and  a  streak  of  l>lood 
trickled  downwards  over  their  hands. 
Some  opened  their  mouths  from  time 
to  time,    but  whether  to  sigh  or  cry 
out   Raynaud  could  not  tell,  for  the 
shouting  and  screaming  of  the  crowd 
would  have  drowned  their  voices.    And 
now,  as  each  cart  came  to  the  stopping- 
place,  the  bound  men  were  one  by  one 
brought  down,    a   white-robed    priest 
plunged  a  knife  into  each  one's  heart, 
and    the    blood    flowed    out  upon  the 
ground.     The  cries  and  chanting  grew 
louder  and  louder ;  people  danced  in 
ecstasy    round    the    pool     of     blood, 
which    was    swelling    almost    into    a 
rivulet,  and  flowed  away  among  the 
trees.     Then,  as   suddenly  as   it  had 
begun,  it  all  ceased  ;  and  Raynaud  saw 
the    dark    church    round  him  with  a 
faint  light  struggling  in  through  the 
window.     And  within  him  the  silent 
Voice  spoke, — "  I  am  the  spirit  of  the 
place.     I  did  it.     Two  thousand  years 
ago,  and  yesterday  and "     There- 
upon the  whole  air  seemed  to  be  filled 
with  pale  faces  of  slaughtered  victims, 
who  moved  round  as  in   a  procession. 
Raynaud    saw    at    last    the   faces    of 
his  three  old  comrades  of  the  Rue  Pot- 
de-Fer  following   one  after  the  other, 
and  at  the  end  of  all  a  fourth  face, — 
his  own  ! 


VI. 

He  returned  to  his  lodging. 
C'itoyenne  Fourmisson  met  him  on 
his  way  to  his  room,  and  poured  upon 
liim  a  torrent  of  abuse  and  threats. 
But  he  only  stared  at  her  and  passed 
on.  What  had  that  past  life  to  do 
with  him  now  1  The  world  had  begun 
to  live  anew,  and  all  the  new  life  was 
coursing  through  his  veins.  Four- 
misson was  away  ;  he  had  been  sent 
with  Tallien  to  sharpen  the  sword  of 
the  Revolutionary  Committee  at 
Bordeaux  and  stamp  out  the  last 
embers  of  Girondinism. 


The   next  morning,  and  the   next, 
and  the  next,  Raynaud  was  in  his  old 
place    beside   the    scaffolding   of    the 
guillotine.  Each  day  he  encountered  his 
friend  of  the  first  occasion  ;  sometimes 
these   two   walked   part  of    the   way 
home  together.     The    acute-faced  one 
was  full  of  statistics  :  of  how  many 
could  be  executed  by  one  "  machinist  "^ 
in  a  single    day  ;    of  what  work  had 
been  done  by  a  rival  machine  in  the 
Champ  de  Mars ;  of  work  that  was  being 
done  in  the  provinces.     One  evening, 
after  a   modest    dinner   together,    he 
took  Raynaud  into  another  chuich  he 
had  never  been  in  before.     It  too  was 
in   the   neighbourhood  of    Mont    de 
Genevieve.     It   was    a    huge    church 
this,  not  like  that  of  St.  Etienne  de 
GrCs  disused  and  empty,  but  crammed 
with — worshippers  shall  we  say  % — yes, 
worshippers  of  a  sort.     The  same  wild 
feelino:  of  exultation  that  he  had  felt 
first  in  St.  Etienne  and  again  by  the 
guillotine,  seized  the  student  now,  as  he 
came  among  these  cloisters  and  looked 
along  the  sea  of    red  caps  and    dark 
unwashed  faces  which  the  place  con- 
tained.    Many  were  smoking ;  a  hot 
thick     atmosphere     rose     from     the 
standing  throng,  and  behind  it  danced 
a   sea    of    faces    which    crowded    the 
amphitheatre  of  benches  in  the  nave 
and  reached  almost  to  the  roof  of  the 
church.      Raynaud     had     seen     long^ 
since  a  print  from  some  picture  by  an 
Italian  master  in  which  tiers  and  tier^ 
of  angels,  all  bearing  instruments  of 
music  in  their  hands,  rose  one  above 
the   other  as  to  the  roof   of   heaven. 
These  were  not  the  faces  of   angels ; 
nor  was  it  like  sweet  music  the  sound 
which  came  from  their  throats  when 
the  speaker  in  a  high  tribune  paused 
in  his  oration.     This   place   was   the 
debating-hall  of  the  Society  des  Amis 
de  la  Libert^  ;    and  the  church   was 
the   church    of    the    Convent    of  the 
Jacobins. 

As  his  friend  spoke  to  this  man 
and  that,  helping  him  forward,  Ray- 
naud felt  the  last  traces  of  his  old  d  ill- 
ness and  indifference  fall  off  him  like 
a  cast  garment.      The  whole  assembly 


The  Four  Students, 


237 


was  but  an  instrument  to  be  played 
upon — and  a  vision  of  the  rat-riddled 
organ  of  St.  Etienne  flashed  through 
his   mind  3   he   would  make  it  sound 
what   tune   he   chose.      He   was   not 
therefore  the  least  surprised  to  find 
himself  presently  in  the  tribune.     The 
motion  before  the  society  was  not  of 
much  importance,  merely  one  for  the 
expulsion   of   one   Legrand   who,    his 
enemies  pointed  out,   had  been    once 
the  signatory  of  an  a/rrU  in  favour  of 
the    *' traitor"    Lafayette.      Such  an 
act  of  expulsion  would  have  been  of 
course  only  the  first  stage  on  the  road 
to  the  guillotine  ;  but  in  the  case  of  a 
single  individual,  of  what  consequence 
was  that  1     What  Raynaud  said  upon 
the  motion  was,  like  most  of  the  other 
speeches,  pretty  wide   of  the  subject 
in  hand.     But  his  peroration    stirred 
the  audience  to  frenzy.     "  Our  duty," 
he  cried,  and  it  was  as  if  a  sonorous 
voice  not    his   own   had  been  lodged 
within   him,  "  our  duty,  the  duty  of 
France,  is  to  purify  the  whole  world  ; 
and  that  can  only  be  done  by  blood, 
and  more  blood,   by    blood   ever  and 
always  !  "     And   when  he  ended,  the 
human  organ  round  him  swelled  into 
such  a  diapason  of  rough-throated  ap- 
plause as  had  never  been  heard  in  that 
church  before. 

Raynaud  became  a  celebrity.  He 
was  placed  upon  the  Revolutionary 
Committee,  and  the  work  of  that  body 
went  forward  ever  more  rapidly  under 
the  inspiration  of  his  zeal.  He  seemed 
to  require  no  rest  nor  food,  and  when- 
ever he  was  not  occupied  upon  the 
tribunal  he  was  sure  to  be  seen  in  a 
cart  by  the  guillotine,  or  on  the  scaf- 
fold itself,  superintending  the  execu- 
tion of  its  victims.  In  those  days  he 
carried  a  motion  that  the  sittings  of 
his  tribunal  should  not  begin  till  the 
afternoon,  but  should  be  prolonged,  if 
needful,  into  the  night  ;  for  the  work 
of  Samson  and  his  colleagues  was 
generally  over  before  four.  Great 
was  the  increase  in  the  rapidity  of 
work  at  the  tribunals,  and  the  growth 
of  the  fournees, — the  batches  of  men 
who  wended   daily  to  the   Place.     It 


was  through  the  motion  of  Raynaud 
that  eventually  a  third  guillotine  was 
set  up  at  the  edge  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Marcel,  on  his  side  of  the  river,  nearer 
still  to  that  site  of  the  old  grove  of 
sacrifice  where  now  stood  St.  Etienne 
des  Gr^s. 

But  there  were  days  of  pause.  On 
the  decadis,  for  example,  the  present 
substitutes  for  Sunday,  no  work  was 
done  \  no  prisoners  were  executed  on 
that  day.  And  on  such  days  Raynaud 
would  sit  quietly  at  home  over  his 
books,  the  gentlest  citizen  in  Paris. 
He  would  allow  no  suitors  to  him  on 
that  day,  for  his  readings  were 
deep.  He  had  found  his  old  volume 
of  John  of  Menz,  and  read  much  in 
him  in  those  days.  On  one  of  these 
decadis  (it  happened  to  be  a  Sunday 
also,  if  such  things  had  been  taken  ac- 
count of),  he  was  sitting  thus  occu- 
pied in  his  old  room  when  a  messenger 
did  gain  admittance,  bringing  a  note. 
Raynaud  gave  a  start  of  pleasure  as 
he  read  it.  It  was  signed  *'  Som- 
marel,"  and  it  asked  him  to  go  and  see 
the  writer,  who,  it  seemed,  was  in  the 
prison  of  La  Force.  A  pleasant  air 
of  ancient  days  seemed  to  breathe 
round  Raynaud  as  he  read  the  old 
handwriting  and  saw  the  familiar 
name.  He  put  down  his  book  and 
followed  the  messenger  at  once. 

Sommarel  came  to  meet  him,  white 
and  trembling,  very  dirty  too,  though 
his  clothes  were  better  than  those 
which  tlie  citizens  of  Paris  thought  it 
wise  to  wear.  He  had  an  ugly  cut 
upon  his  cheek,  which  showed  purple 
against  his  dead  white  skin. 

**  1  never  knew  anything  about  it 
when  I  bought  the  property,"  he 
began  at  once,  almost  before  Raynaud 
had  had  time  to  greet  him,  and  his 
voice  trembled  miserably.  "  God  is 
my  witness,  monsieur,  that  I  never 
knew  !  I  was  preparing  to  write  to 
monsieur,  to  the  illustrious  citizen, 
and  tell  him — A.h,  mon  Dieu,  citizen, 
my  old  friend,  save  me,  save  me  I     I 

have  a    wife    and "  and  here  his 

trembling  voice  broke  into  sobs. 

"  Dieu  de  Dieu,  what  does  he  mean  V 


238 


The  Fmir  Stvdents, 


said  Kaynaud,  in  his  gentle  voice. 
**  What  is  it,  my  old  comrade  ?  You 
are  beside  yourself." 

"  What  ]  The  money,  the  treasure 
that  I  found, — was  I  not  arrested 
because  of  that  %  *'  Sommarel  checked 
himself  in  his  explanation.  His  voice 
trembled  less. 

"  Money  1  Treasure  ]  I  know  no- 
thing of  it,"  Raynaud  said  dreamily, 
passing  his  hand  before  his  face. 
"  Treasure  1  Ah,  at  Les  Colombiers  ? 
I  heard  something  of  that, — long  ago," 
he  added,  as  if  plunged  in  a  deep 
reverie. 

Sommarel  stared.  He  had  only 
completed  the  purchase  of  Les  Colom- 
biers two  months  previously,  and  it 
was  only  a  week  since  he  had  disco- 
vered under  an  old  apple-tree  an  iron 
box  containing  three  thousand  pieces 
of  twenty  livres, — sixty  thousand  livres 
in  gold,  besides  jewels.  He  had  thought 
of  making  some  communication  to 
Raynaud,  who  was  too  powerful  a 
person  to  be  left  unpropitiated ;  but 
had  taken  no  steps  towards  doing  so 
till  three  days  before  he  had  been 
arrested  and  carried  up  to  Paris.  If 
he  had  only  waited  and  not  been  so 
unnerved  by  fear !  He  tried  now  to 
put  a  good  face  upon  it.  "  Ah,  then 
my  arrest  had  been  no  doubt  a  pure 
mistake.  How  fortunate  that  you, 
my  old  friend,  should  have  the  power 
of  releasing  me  so  easily !  You  will 
order  me  to  be  set  at  liberty  at  once, 
n^est-ce  pas  ?  " 

Raynaud's  face  darkened.  It  was 
as  if  some  subject  totally  foreign  to 
his  present  thoughts  had  been  forced 
upon  him.  "  I  have  not  the  power," 
he  said  briefly ;  and  while  that  dark 
look  was  on  his  face  Sommarel  dared 
not  press  the  point. 

Presently  his  face  cleared,  and  he  and 
his  old  comrade  exchanged  information 
about  their  lives  since  the  day  when 
they  parted  close  upon  six  years  ago. 

Sommarel  had  prospered  moderately 
(he  was  careful  to  say  only  moderately) 
as  a  lawyer  in  Tours,  had  taken  to 
himself  a  wife,  and  had  two  children. 
He  looked  piteously   up  at  Raynaud 


as  he  told  him  these  last  details.  But 
the  other  only  went  on  to  ask  about 
Tourret  and  Gavaudun.  Tourret,  it 
seemed,  had  not  gone  to  Switzerland. 
His  father-in-law,  the  ci-devcmtj  was 
dead.  Tourret  and  his  wife  had  still 
a  moderate  income,  and  lived  quietly 
in  Auvergne.  During  all  the  talk 
Sommarel  watched  (as  a  dog  watches) 
the  face  of  his  friend.  He  had,  Som- 
marel saw,  the  same  mild  dreamy 
eyes  which  the  young  student  had 
in  days  of  yore,  the  same  gentle  voice. 
At  last  Raynaud  got  up  to  go. 

"  Ah !  mon  JDieu,  Geoffroi,  thou 
wilt  not  leave  me  here.  Consider  the 
danger !  Have  pity,  have  pity  ;  think 
of  my  wife,  my  children  !  "  Again  his 
voice  was  choked  with  fear  and  grief. 

Once  more  the  dark  look  came  into 
Raynaud's  face.  "  I  have  not  the 
power,"  he  said,  and  hurried  out. 

Sommarel  was  in  one  of  the  early 
batches  that  came  up  for  trial.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact  his  arrest  had  been 
a  mistake,  and  there  really  appeared 
to  be  nothing  against  him.  The  Tri- 
bunal however  hesitated  to  acquit ; 
acquitting  was  an  act  which  seemed 
almost  contrary  to  nature.  Besides 
this  lawyer  of  Tours  wore  a  better 
coat  and  finer  linen  than  seemed  com- 
patible with  the  best  citizenship, — ^al- 
ways  excepting  the  case  of  Robespierre, 
who  was  allowed  by  public  opinion  to 
wear  silk  stockings  and  gilt  buckles. 
Still  you  could  not  precisely  condemn 
a  man  for  wearing  good  clothes. 
"  What  do  you  think  ] "  one  member 
whispered  to  Raynaud.  "Must  one 
acquit  ? "  Raynaud  made  no  answer  ; 
he  only  stepped  from  his  seat  on  the. 
rostrum  to  the  body  of  the  hall. 

"I  denounce  the  citizen,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  known  him  long,  and  I  know 
him  a  proper  subject  for  the  guillotine." 

**  Geoffroi,  my  friend,  have  pity  on 
me  ! "  was  all  that  Sommarel  could  say. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  other  members,  "he 
acknowledges  the  old  acquaintanceship. 
Citizen  Raynaud  has  acted  the  part  of 
a  good  patriot !  "  And  Sommarel  was. 
removed. 


The  F(niT  Skcdents. 


23{> 


VII. 

Everybody  spoke  of  this  act  of  pa- 
triotism on  the  part  of  Raynaud.  It 
had  its  imitators ;  and  before  long  it 
came  to  be  a  distinguishing  note  of 
Roman  virtue  to  denounce  some  rela- 
tive or  friend.  In  such  a  case  denun- 
ciation meant  death  as  a  matter  of 
course.  It  was  argued  that  only  under 
the  pressure  of  the  most  ardent  patriot- 
ism had  private  feelings  been  so  far 
sacrificed.  To  question  therefore  the 
knowledge  of  one  who  had  been 
wrought  to  such  a  step  was  clearly 
absurd. 

To  Raynaud  it  only  meant  that  the 
batches  graw  larger  day  by  day.  There 
was  a  question  of  dividing  the  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal  that  the  work  of  trial 
might  be  more  expeditious,  and  Ray- 
naud warmly  advocated  the  scheme. 
Robespierre  advocated  it  too.  There 
were  found  some  who  said  the  gentle- 
eyed  author  of  the  saying,  II  faut  du 
sang,  et  encore  du  sang,  et  toujours  du 
sang,  was  a  better  patriot  than  Robes- 
pierre himself  ;  so  Robespierre  coldly 
advocated  the  scheme  for  division  of 
the  Tribunals  and  it  was  carried. 

On  the  other  hand  the  friends  of 
Robespierre  remarked  that  though  it 
was  Raynaud  who  had  set  the  fashion 
of  "  denouncings/^  and  though  it  was 
he  who  had  finally  introduced  the 
practice  of  accepting  these  denouncings 
in  the  place  of  evidence,  no  more  of 
his  own  friends  or  relations  ever  ap- 
peared before  the  Tribunals.  The  dis- 
content which  these  hints  began  to 
arouse  went  so  far  that  at  last  one  of 
the  denounced  ones  was  acquitted  by 
Raynaud's  own  Tribunal  against  his 
earnest  pleadings.  Of  late,  moreover, 
Samson  had  once  been  hissed  and  not 
cheered  when  he  mounted  the  guil- 
lotine in  the  Place  de  la  Revolution, 
and  the  tumbrils  were  no  longer  cursed 
60  loudly  as  they  rolled  through  the 
streets.  No  crowds  preceded  them 
dancing  the  carmagnole  and  singing; 
on  the  contrary,  the  crowd  sometimes 
stood  silent,  some  women  were  even 
heard  to  use  words  of  pity.     Raynaud 


himself  witnessed  this  scene  ;  he  went 
home  and  took  to  his  bed.  Robes- 
pierre was  said  to  have  declared  that 
he  was  going  too  far  and  demoralising 
the  guillotine. 

Should    he    denounce    his    brother 
Gilbert  and  so  vindicate  his   position 
once  more?     There   was  Tourret  too 
living  in  Auvergne.     Yes,  he  decided 
on  both  these ;  anything  must  be  done 
rather  than  that   the   daily   sacrifice 
should  grow  less.     Meantime  a  piece 
of  good  fortune  happened.     Gavaudun, 
teaching  French  literature  and  law  in 
Prague,  had  heard  that  Raynaud  had 
risen  to  a  position  of  importance  with- 
out hearing  of  the  details.     He  wrote 
to  his  former  comrade  asking  for  some 
help  in  a  matter  of  private  interest. 
Raynaud    replied    and    succeeded    at 
length  in  enticing  Gavaudun  to  an  in- 
terview with   a  supposed  notary  and 
notary's  clerk  upon  the  Swiss  frontier. 
Gavaudun  was  seized  and  carried  to 
Paris,  denounced  and  executed.     Ray- 
naud's influence  rose  again  :  the  batch 
of  conda/mnes  next  day  increased  from 
thirty-nine   to  sixty-three ;  and   once 
more  the  blood  seemed  to  course  through 
his  veins. 

But  alas  !  next  day  came  the  news 
that  Gilbert  Raynaud  had  escaped,. 
Only  his  father-in-law,  old  Plaidoyer, 
was  seized.  And  people  began  ta 
murmur  against  Raynaud  again.  But 
then  Tourret  had  been  taken ;  so  came 
the  news  the  day  following  ;  and  he  in 
due  course  was  brought  up  to  Paris. 

It  was  said  that  seldom  had  a  prisoner 
pleaded  more  eloquently  than  Tourret 
did.  His  speech  was  delivered  as 
though  addressed  personally  to  Ray- 
naud and  to  him  alone,  though  in  fact 
the  latter  was  not  holding  the  posi- 
tion of  a  judge  but  of  a  witness. 
Tourret  spoke  of  their  old  comrade- 
ship, of  pleasures  and  hardships  shared 
in  common,  of  this  act  of  kindness 
on  the  part  of  Raynaud,  of  that 
return  by  himself.  Then  he  went  on 
to  plead  the  innocence  of  his  life 
since,  buried  as  he  had  been  down 
in  the  country,—"  simple-minded  and 
avoiding    State   afPairs,"    as   he   said, 


240 


Tke  Four  Students. 


quoting  in  Greek  ;  for  he  and  Raynaud 
had  read  Aristophanes  together  in  the 
old  days.  A  momentary  smile  flitted 
across  Raynaud's  unexpressive  face 
as  he  heard  these  words  j  for  he  knew 
that  if  there  had  been  any  disposition 
to  acquit  upon  the  part  of  the  judges, 
this  display  of  learning  would  prob- 
ably just  turn  the  scale.  Tourret 
went  on  to  speak  of  his  father-in-law 
lately  dead,  of  his  wife  and  one  child, 
and  his  voice  faltered  a  little — not 
over  much.  He  spoke  like  a  born 
orator;  even  the  judges  were  moved; 
and  Citizen  Fourmisson  whispered, 
looking  at  Raynaud's  impassive  coun- 
tenance, "That  man  has  a  heart  of 
stone."  But  then  Citizen  Fourmisson 
had  always  been  of  the  party  secretly  op- 
posed to  the  Aristides  of  the  Tribunal. 
Aristides  himself  was  as  one  who  only 
listened  for  form's  sake.  When  the 
speech  was  over  he  raised  his  head 
with  that  peculiar  light  in  his  eyes 
which  seemed  almost  to  mesmerise  his 
fellow- judges  and  to  call  forth  the  word 
he  expected.  Condamne  !  came  from 
all  mouths  at  once,  and  the  prisoner 
was  removed  to  make  way  for  the 
next. 

VIII. 

Of  the  next  day's  batch  to  the 
guillotine  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Marcel 
Tourret  was  the  first  name  on  the 
list.  Raynaud  was,  as  usual,  upon 
the  platform.  Robespierre  too  had 
come  that  day  to  assist  at  the  execu- 
tions, jealous  of  the  other's  growing 
reputation  for  patriotism  of  an  exalted 
kind.  There  were  one  or  two  other 
citizens  of  some  note  there.  But 
these  two  stood  before  the  rest,  the 
observed  of  all  observers  ;  Robespierre 
at  any  rate  was,  for  he  was  not  often 
seen  in  that  remote  south-east  region. 
He  had  on  an  elegant  drab  coat,  black 
breeches,  and  white  stockings.  Ray- 
naud was  in  his  usual  coarse  black 
coat  and  breeches  and  red  cap  of 
liberty  ;  and  out  of  these  rough  habili- 
ments the  singular  delicacy  of  his  fea- 


tures, the  singulai*  long  white  hands, 
showed  only  the  more  conspicuous. 

He  watched  the  caii;  as  it  drew  up 
to  the  scaffold,  watched  the  victims 
while  they  answered  to  their  names, 
watched  the  first  of  them,  Tourret,  as 
he  was  brought  upon  the  platform 
bound, — yet  not  as  if  he  had  ever  seen 
him  before,  though  his  comrade  cast 
upon  him  a  glance  which  might  have 
awed  a  Judas,  —  watched  him  as  he 
was  led  forward  and  placed  with  his 
head  upon  the  block. 

There  was,  it  has  been  said,  always  a 
momentary  pause  and  hush  before  the 
fall  of  the  first  head.  The  details  of 
the  performance  this  day  were  the 
same  as  on  the  previous  one.  The 
swift-checked  hiss,  a  dull, — a  very  dull 
thud. 

Then  a  woman  screamed  as  never 
woman  had  screamed  before.  The 
sound  sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through 
even  that  crowd,  used  as  it  was  to 
horrors  of  many  kinds.  Those  who 
were  a  little  way  off  set  the  woman 
down  as  the  wife  of  the  condemned. 
But  those  who  were  close  to  her  saw 
that  she  had  not  even  been  looking  at 
the  victim,  that  her  eyes  had  been  fixed 
upon  Robespierre  and  his  com 

But  there  was  nobody  standing 
beside  Robespierre ! 

The  woman  was  foaming  at  the 
mouth.  *  *  M(m  Dieu,  c'etait  le  diahle  !  " 
she  moaned.  Samson  had  hold  of  the 
head ;  he  turned  to  display  it  first  to 
the  two  great  men.  Robespierre  on 
his  part  turned  round  to  speak  to  his 
neighbour,  and  then  his  face  grew  white 
to  the  lips.  There  was  no  Raynaud 
beside  him  I  Others  had  seen  the  same 
sight  that  the  woman  had  seen.  "  It 
was  Robespierre's  familiar  spirit,"  they 
said ;  and  in  the  talk  which  grew  out 
of  what  they  had  to  tell  lay  the  germ 
of  Thermidor. 

But  one  acute-faced  man  close  to 
the  scaffolding  was  heard  to  murmui-, 
"The  mystic  chain  is  broken — Catena 
mystica  riqyta  est !  " 

C.  F.  Keary. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE. 


FEBRUARY,  1892. 


DON  ORSINO.^ 


BY   F,   MABION   CRAWFORD. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  rage  of  speculation  was  at  its 
height  in  Rome.  Thousands,  perhaps 
hundreds  of  thousands,  of  persons  were 
embarked  in  enterprises  which  soon 
afterwards  ended  in  total  ruin  to  them- 
selves and  in  very  serious  injury  to 
many  of  the  strongest  financial  bodies 
in  the  country.  Yet  it  is  a  fact  worth 
recording  that  the  general  principle 
upon  which  affairs  were  conducted 
was  an  honest  one.  The  land  was  a 
fact,  the  buildings  erected  were  facts, 
and  there  was  actually  a  certain 
amount  of  capital,  of  genuine  ready 
money,  in  use.  The  whole  matter  can 
be  explained  in  a  few  words. 

The  population  of  Rome  had  in- 
creased considerably  since  the  Italian 
occupation,  and  house-room  was  needed 
for  the  new  comers.  Secondly,  the 
partial  execution  of  the  scheme  for 
beautifying  the  city  had  destroyed 
great  numbers  of  dwellings  in  the 
most  thickly  populated  parts,  and 
more  house-room  was  needed  to  com- 
pensate the  loss  of  habitations,  while 
extensive  lots  of  land  were  suddenly 
set  free  and  offered  for  sale  upon  easy 
conditions  in  all  parts  of  the  town. 

Those  who  availed  themselves  of 
these  opportunities  before  the  general 
rush  began,  realised  immense  profits, 
especially  when  they  had  some  capital 
of  their  own  to  begin  with.  But 
capital  was  not  indispensable.  A  man 
could  buy  his  lot  on  credit ;  the  banks 

»  Copyright  1891, 
No.  388. — VOL.  LXV. 


were  ready  to  advance  him  money  on 
notes  of  hand,  in  small  amounts  at  high 
interest,  wherewith  to  build  his  house 
or  houses.  When  the  building  was 
finished  the  bank  took  a  first  mortgage 
upon  the  property,  the  owner  let  the 
house,  paid  the  interest  on  the  mort- 
gage out  of  the  rent,  and  pocketed  the 
difference  as  clear  gain.  In  the 
majority  of  cases  it  was  the  bank 
itself  which  sold  the  lot  of  land  to 
the  speculator.  It  is  clear  therefore 
that  the  only  money  which  actually 
changed  hands  was  that  advanced  in 
small  sums  by  the  bank  itself. 

As  the  speculation  increased,  the 
banks  could  not  of  course  afford  to 
lock  up  all  the  small  notes  of  hand 
they  received  from  various  quarters. 
This  paper  became  a  circulating  me- 
dium as  far  as  Vienna,  Paris,  and  even 
London.  The  crash  came  when 
Vienna,  Paris  and  London  lost  faith 
in  the  paper,  owing,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  one  or  two  small  failures, 
and  returned  it  upon  Rome ;  the 
banks,  unable  to  obtain  cash  for  it  at 
any  price,  and  being  short  of  ready 
money,  could  then  no  longer  discount 
the  speculator's  further  notes  of  hand ; 
so  that  the  speculator  found  himself 
with  half-built  houses  upon  his  hands 
which  he  could  neither  let,  nor  finish, 
nor  sell,  and  owing  money  upon  bills 
which  he  had  expected  to  meet  by 
giving  the  bank  a  mortgage  on  the 
now  valueless  property. 

That    is    what   took    place    in    the 

by  Macmillan  and  Co. 

R 


242 


Don  Orsino. 


majority  of  cases,  and  it  is  not  necessary 
to  go  into  further  details,  though  of 
course  chance  played  all  the  usual 
variations  upon  the  theme  of  ruin. 

What  distinguishes  the  period  of 
speculation  in  Rome  from  most  other 
manifestations  of  the  kind  in  Europe 
is  the  prominent  part  played  in  it  by 
the  old  land-holding  families,  a  num- 
l>er  of  which  were  ruined  in  wild 
schemes  which  no  sensible  man  of 
business  would  have  touched.*  This 
was  more  or  less  the  result  of  recent 
crhanges  in  the  laws  regulating  the 
power  of  persons  making  a  will. 

Previous  to  1870  the  law  of  primo- 
<;eniture  was  as  much  respected  in 
Rome  as  in  England,  and  was  carried 
out  with  considerably  greater  strict- 
ness. The  heir  got  everything,  the 
other  children  got  practically  nothing 
but  the  smallest  pittance.  The  palace, 
the  gallery  of  pictures  and  statues,  the 
lands,  the  villages,  and  the  castles,  de- 
scended in  unbroken  succession  from 
eldest  son  to  eldest  son,  indivisible  in 
principle  and  undivided  in  fact. 

The  new  law  requires  that  one-half 
of  the  total  property  shall  be  equally 
distributed  by  the  testator  among  all 
his  children.  He  may  leave  the  other 
half  to  any  one  he  pleases,  and  as  a 
matter  of  practice  he  of  course  leaves 
it  to  his  eldest  son. 

Another  law,  however,  forbids  the 
alienation  of  all  collections  of  works  of 
art  either  wholly  or  in  part,  if  they 
have  existed  as  such  for  a  certain 
length  of  time,  and  if  the  public  has 
been  admitted  daily,  or  on  any  fixed 
days,  to  visit  them.  It  is  not  in  the 
power  of  the  Borghese,  or  the  Colonna, 
for  instance,  to  sell  a  picture  or  a 
statue  out  of  their  galleries,  nor  to 
raise  money  upon  such  an  object 
by  mortgage  or  otherwise.  Yet 
these  works  of  art  figure  at  a 
very  high  valuation  in  the  total 
property  of  which  the  testator  must 
divide  one-half  among  his  children, 
though  in  point  of  fact  they  yield  no 
income  whatever.  But  it  is  of  no  use 
to  divide  them,  since  none  of  the  heirs 
could  be  at  liberty  to  take  them  away 


nor  realise  their  value  in  any  manner 
The  consequence  is,  that  the  prin- 
cipal heir,  after  the  division  has  taken 
place,  finds  himself  the  nominal  master 
of  certain  enormously  valuable  posses- 
sions, which  in  reality  yield  him  no- 
thing or  next  to  nothing.  He  also 
foresees  that  in  the  next  generation  the 
same  state  of  things  will  exist  in  a  far 
higher  degree,  and  that  the  position  of 
the  head  of  the  family  will  go  from 
bad  to  worse  until  a  crisis  of  some 
kind  takes  place. 

Such  a  case  has  recently  occurred. 
A  certain  Roman  prince  is  bankrupt. 
The  sale  of  his  gallery  would  certainly 
relieve  the  pressure,  and  would  possibly 
free  him  from  debt  altogether.  But 
neither  he  nor  his  creditors  can  lay  a 
finger  upon  the  pictures,  nor  raise  a 
centime  upon  them.  This  man,  there- 
fore, is  permanently  reduced  to  penury, 
and  his  creditors  are  large  losers,  while 
he  is  still  de  jv/re  and  de  facto  the 
owner  of  property  probably  suflicient 
to  cover  all  his  obligations.  For- 
tunately, he  chances  to  be  childless,  a 
fact  consoling,  perhaps,  to  the  philan- 
thropist, but  not  especially  so  to  the 
sufferer  himself. 

It  is  clear  that  the  temptation  to 
increase  "  distributable  "  property,  if 
one  may  coin  such  an  expression,  is 
very  great,  and  accounts  for  the  way 
in  which  many  Roman  gentlemen  have 
rushed  headlong  into  speculation, 
though  possessing  none  of  the  qualities 
necessary  for  success,  and  only  one  of 
the  requisites,  namely,  a  certain 
amount  of  ready  money,  or  free  and 
convertible  property.  A  few  have 
been  fortunate,  while  the  majority  of 
those  who  have  tried  the  experiment 
have  been  heavy  losers.  It  cannot 
be  said  that  any  one  of  them  all  has 
shown  natural  talent  for  finance. 

Let  the  reader  forgive  these  dry  ex- 
planations if  he  can.  The  facts 
explained  have  a  direct  bearing  upon 
the  story  I  am  telling,  but  shall  not, 
as  mere  facts,  be  referred  to  again. 

I  have  already  said  that  Ugo  Del 
Ferice  had  returned  to  Rome  soon 
after  the  change,  had  established  him- 


Don  Orsino. 


243 


self  with  his  wife,  Donna  TuUia,  and 
was,  at  the  time  I  am  speaking  about, 
deeply  engaged  in  the  speculations  of 
the  day.     He  had  once  been  tolerably 
popular  in  society,  having  been  looked 
upon  as  a  harmless  creature,  useful  in 
his  way  and  very  obliging.     But  the 
circumstances  which  had  attended  his 
flight  some  years  earlier  had  become 
known,  and  most  of  his  old  acquaint- 
ances turned  him  the   cold   shoulder. 
He  had  expected  this  and  was  neither 
disappointed  nor  humiliated.     He  had 
made  new   friends  and  acquaintances 
during    his  exile,   and    it    was    to  his 
interest  to  stand  by  them.     Like  many 
of  those  who  have  played  petty  and  dis- 
honourable parts  in  the  revolutionary 
times,  he  had  succeeded  in  building  up 
a  reputation  for  patriotism  upon  a  very 
slight  foundation,  and  had  found  per- 
sons willing  to  believe  him  a  sufferer 
who    had  escaped   martyrdom  for  the 
cause,  and  had  deserved  the  crown  of 
election    to   a   constituency  as  a  just 
reward  of  his  devotion.     The  Romans 
cared  very  little  what  became  of  him. 
The    old    Blacks    confounded    Victor 
Emmanuel    with     Garibaldi,     Cavour 
with  Persia  no,  and  Silvio  Pellico  with 
Del  Ferice  in  one  sweeping  condemna- 
tion, desiring  nothing  so  much  as  never 
to  hear  the  hated  names  mentioned  in 
their  houses.     The  Grey  party,  being 
also    Roman,   disapproved   of  Ugo  on 
general    principles     and     particularly 
because  he  had   been  a  spy  ;  but  the 
Whites,  not  being  Romans  at  all,  and 
entertaining  an  especial  detestat  ion  for 
every    distinctly   Roman    opinion,    re- 
ceived him  at  his  own  estimation,  as 
society  receives  most  people  who  live 
in  good  houses,  give  good  dinners,  and 
observe  the  proprieties  in  the  matter  of 
visiting-cards.     Those  who  knew  any- 
thing definite  of  the  man's  antecedents 
were  mostly  persons  who  had  little  his- 
tories of  their  own,  and  they  told  no 
tales  out  of  school.     The  great  person- 
ages   who     had    once    employed    him 
would  have  been  magnanimous  enough 
to  acknowledge  him  in  any  case,  but 
were  agreeably  disappointed  when  they 
discovered    that    he    was   not   among 


the   common  herd  of  pension-hunters, 
and  claimed  no  substantial  reward  save 
their    politeness    and    a    line   in  the 
visiting-lists   of  their  wives.     And  as 
he    grew    in   wealth   and   importance 
they   found   that   he   could  be  useful 
still,  as  bank-directors  and  members  of 
Parliament    can    be,    in    a    thousand 
ways.     So   it  came  to  pass   that  the 
Count  and  Countess  Del  Ferice  became 
prominent  persons  in  the  Roman  world. 
Ugo  was  a  man  of  undoubted  talent. 
By  his  own  individual  efforts,  though 
with  small  scruple  as  to  the  means  he 
employed,  he  had  raised  himself  from 
obscurity  to  a  very  enviable  position. 
He   had    only   once  in  his   life  been 
carried   away  by  the   weakness  of  a 
personal   enmity,   and    he    had    been 
made  to  pay  heavily  for  his  caprice. 
If  Donna  Tullia  had  abandoned  him 
when  he  was  driven  out  of  Rome  by 
the   influence  of   the  Saracinesca,    he 
might   have     disappeared    altogether 
from  the  scene.     But  she  was  an  odd 
compound   of  rashness  and  foresight, 
of  belief  and  unbelief,  and  she  had  at 
that  time  felt  herself  bound  by  an  oath 
she   dared   not    break,   besides   being 
attached  to  him  by  a  hatred  of  Giovanni 
Saracinesca  almost  as  great  as  his  own. 
She  had  followed  him  and  had  married 
him  without  hesitation  ;  but  she  had 
kept  the  undivided  possession  of  her  for- 
tune while  allowing  him  a  liberal  use 
of  her  income.     In  return,  she  claimed 
a  certain   liberty  of   action  when   she 
chose  to  avail  herself  of  it.     She  would 
not   be   bound  in   the  choice    of   her 
acquaintances   nor     criticised   in  the 
measure  of  like  or  dislike  she  bestowed 
upon  them.      She  was  by  no  means 
wholly  bad,  and  if  she  had  a  harmless 
fancy  now  and  then,  she  required  her 
husband  to  treat  her  as  above  suspicion. 
On  the  whole  the  arrangement  worked 
very  well.     Del  Ferice,  on  his  part, 
was  unswervingly  faithful  to  her  in 
word  and  deed,  for  he  exhibited  in  a 
high  degree  that  unfaltering  constancy 
which  is  bred  of  a  permanent,  unalien- ' ' 
able,  financial  interest.     Bad  men  are 
often  clever,  but  if  their  cleverness  is 
of  a   superior  order   they   rarely  do 

B  2 


244 


Don  Orsino. 


anything  bad.  It  is  true  that  when  they 
yield  to  the  pressure  of  necessity  their 
wickedness  surpasses  that  of  other  men 
in  the  same  degree  as  their  intelligence. 
Not  only  honesty,  but  all  virtue  col- 
lectively, is  the  best  possible  policy, 
provided  that  the  politician  can  handle 
such  a  tremendous  engine  of  evil  as 
goodness  is  in  the  hands  of  a  thoroughly 
bad  man. 

Those  who  desired  pecuniary  accom- 
modation from  the  bank  in  which  Del 
Ferice  had  an  interest,  had  no  better 
friend  than  he.  His  power  with  the 
directors  seemed  to  be  as  boundless  as 
his  desire  to  assist  the  borrower.  But 
he  was  helpless  to  prevent  the  fore- 
closure of  a  mortgage,  and  had  been 
moved  almost  to  tears  in  the  expression 
of  his  sympathy  with  the  debtor  and 
of  his  horror  at  the  hard-heartedness 
shown  by  his  partners.  To  prove  his 
disinterested  spirit  it  only  need  be  said 
that  on  many  occasions  he  had  actually 
come  forward  as  a  private  individual 
and  had  taken  over  the  mortgage 
himself,  distinctly  stating  that  he  could 
not  hold  it  for  more  than  a  year,  but 
expressing  a  hope  that  the  debtor  might 
in  that  time  retrieve  himself.  If  this 
really  happened,  he  earned  the  man's 
eternal  gratitude  ;  if  not,  he  foreclosed 
indeed,  but  the  loser  never  forgot  that 
by  Del  Fence's  kindness  he  had  been 
offered  a  last  chance  at  a  desperate 
moment.  It  could  not  be  said  to  be 
Del  Ferice' s  fault  that  the  second  case 
was  the  more  frequent  one,  nor  that 
the  result  to  himself  was  profit  in 
either  event. 

In  his  dealings  with  his  constituency 
he  showed  a  noble  desire  for  the 
public  welfare,  for  he  was  never  known 
to  refuse  anything  in  reason  to  the 
electors  who  applied  to  him.  It  is  true 
that  in  the  case  of  certain  applications, 
he  consumed  so  much  time  in  pre- 
liminary inquiries  and  subsequent 
formalities  that  the  applicants  some- 
times died  and  sometimes  emigrated  to 
the  Argentine  Republic  before  the 
matter  could  be  settled ;  but  they 
bore  with  them  to  South  America — 
or  to   the  grave — the  belief  that  the 


Onorevole  Del  Ferice  was  on  their  side, 
and  the  instances  of  his  prompt,  decisive 
and  successful  action  were  many.  He 
represented  a  small  town  in  the 
Neapolitan  Province,  and  the  benefits 
and  advantages  he  had  obtained  for  it 
were  numberless.  The  provincial  high 
road  had  been  made  to  pass  through  it ; 
all  express  trains  stopped  at  its  station, 
though  the  passengers  who  made  use 
of  the  inestimable  privilege  did  not 
average  twenty  in  the  month ;  it  pos- 
sessed a  Piazza  Yittorio  Emmanuela,  a 
Corso  Garibaldi,  a  Via  Cavour,  a 
public  garden  of  at  least  a  quarter  of 
an  acre,  planted  with  no  less  than 
twenty-five  acacias  and  adorned  by  a 
fountain  representing  a  desperate- 
looking  character  in  the  act  of  firing  a 
finely  executed  revolver  at  an  imagin- 
ary oppressor.  Pigs  were  not  allowed 
within  the  limits  of  the  town,  and  the 
uniforms  of  the  municipal  brass  band 
were  perfectly  new.  Could  civilisation 
do  more?  The  bank  of  which  Del 
Ferice  was  a  director  bought  the 
octroi  duties  of  the  town  at  the 
periodical  auction,  and  farmed  them 
skilfully,  together  with  those  of 
many  other  towns  in  the  same  province. 

So  Del  Ferice  was  a  very  successful 
man,  and  it  need  scarcely  be  said  that 
he  was  now  not  only  independent  of  his 
wife's  help  but  very  much  richer  than 
she  had  ever  been.  They  lived  in  a 
highly  decorated,  detached  modern 
house  in  the  new  part  of  the  city. 
The  gilded  gate  before  the  little  plot 
of  garden  bore  their  intertwined  ini- 
tials surmounted  by  a  modest  count's 
coronet.  Donna  TuUia  would  have 
preferred  a  coat-of-arms,  or  even  a 
crest,  but  Ugo  was  sensitive  to  ridi- 
cule, and  he  was  aware  that  a  count's 
coronet  in  Rome  means  nothing  at 
all,  whereas  a  coat-of-arms  means 
vastly  more  than  in  most  cities. 

Within,  the  dwelling  was  somewhat 
unpleasantly  gorgeous.  Donna  Tullia 
had  always  loved  red,  both  for  itself  and 
because  it  made  her  own  complexion 
seem  less  florid  by  contrast,  and  ac- 
cordingly red  satin  predominated  in 
the  drawing-rooms,  red  velvet  in  the 


Don  Ch'sino, 


245 


dining-room,  red  damask  in  the  hall, 
and  red  carpets  on  the  stairs.  Some 
fine  specimens  of  gilding  were  also 
to  be  seen,  and  Del  Ferice  had  been 
one  of  the  first  to  use  electric  light. 
Everything  was  new,  expensive  and 
polished  to  its  extreme  capacity  for 
reflection.  The  servants  wore  vivid 
liveries,  and  on  formal  occasions  the 
butler  appeared  in  short-clothes  and 
black  silk  stockings.  Donna  Tullia*s 
equipage  was  visible  at  a  great  distance, 
but  Del  Fence's  own  coachman  and 
groom  wore  dark  green  with  black 
epaulettes. 

On  the  morning  which  Orsino  and 
Madame  d'Aragona  had  spent  in 
Gouache's  studio  the  Countess  Del 
Ferice  entered  her  husband's  study  in 
order  to  consult  him  upon  a  rather 
delicate  matter.  He  was  alone,  but 
busy  as  usual.  His  attention  was 
divided  between  an  important  bank 
operation  and  a  petition  for  his  help 
in  obtaining  a  decoration  for  the 
mayor  of  the  town  he  represented. 
The  claim  to  this  distinction  seemed 
to  rest  chiefly  on  the  petitioner's 
unasked  evidence  in  regard  to  his 
own  moral  rectitude,  yet  Del  Ferice 
was  really  exercising  all  his  ingenuity 
to  discover  some  suitable  reason  for 
asking  the  favour.  He  laid  the  papers 
down  with  a  sigh  as  Donna  TuUia 
came  in. 

"  Good  morning,  my  angel,"  he  said 
suavely,  as  he  pointed  to  a  chair  at 
his  side — the  one  usually  occupied  at 
this  hour  by  seekers  for  financial 
support.     *'  Have  you  rested  well '] " 

He  never  failed  to  ask  the  question. 

*'  Not  badly,  not  badly,  thank 
Heaven  ! "  answered  Donna  TuUia. 
"  I  have  a  dreadful  cold,  of  course, 
and  a  headache — my  head  is  really 
splitting." 

"  Kest — rest  is  what  you  need,  my 
dear " 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing.  This  Durakoff 
is  a  great  man.  If  he  had  not  made 
me  go  to  Carlsbad — I  really  do  not 
know.  But  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you.  I  want  your  help,  Ugo. 
Please  listen  to  me." 


Ugo's  fat  white  face  already  ex- 
pressed anxious  attention.  To  ac- 
centuate the  expression  of  his 
readiness  to  listen,  he  now  put 
all  his  papers  into  a  drawer  and 
turned  towards  his  wife. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  Jubilee,"  said 
Donna  Tullia,  coming  to  the  point. 

"  Of  course  you  must  go " 

"  And  I  must  have  my  seat  amon 
the  Roman  ladies." 

**  Of  course  you  must,"  repeated  De 
Ferice  with  a  little  less  alacrity. 

"  Ah !  You  see, — it  is  not  so 
easy.  You  know  it  is  not.  Yet 
I  have  as  good  a  right  to  my  seat  as 
any  one — better  perhaps." 

''Hardly  that,"  observed  Ugo  with 
a  smile.  "  When  you  married  me, 
my  angel,  you  relinquished  your  claims 
to  a  seat  at  the  Vatican  functions." 

"  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  never 
said  so,  I  am  sure." 

"Perhaps  if  you  could  make  that 
clear  to  the  major-duomo " 

"  Absurd,  Ugo ;  you  know  it  is. 
Besides,  I  will  not  beg.  You  must 
get  me  the  seat.  You  can  do  anything 
with  your  influence." 

**  You  could  easily  get  into  one  of 
the  diplomatic  tribunes,"  observed 
Ugo. 

"  I  will  not  go  there.  I  mean  to 
assert  myself.  I  am  a  Roman  lady, 
and  I  will  have  my  seat ;  and  you  must 
get  it  for  me." 

"  1  will  do  my  best.  But  I  do  not 
quite  see  where  I  am  to  begin.  It  will 
need  time  and  consideration  and  much 
tact." 

"  It  seems  to  me  very  simple.  Go 
to  one  of  the  clerical  deputies  and  say 
that  you  want  the  ticket  for  your 
wife " 

"And  thenl" 

"  Give  him  to  understand  that  you 
will  vote  for  his  next  measure.  Nothing 
could  be  simpler,  I  am  sure." 

Del  Ferice  smiled  blandly  at  his 
wife's  ideas  of  parliamentary  diplo- 
macy. 

"There  are  no  clerical  deputies  in 
the  parliament  of  the  nation.  If  there 
were  the  thing  might  be  possible,  and 


246 


Don  Orsino, 


it  would  be  very  interesting  to  all  the 
clericals  to  read  an  account  of  the 
transaction  in  the  Osservatore  Romano. 
In  any  case,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  will 
be  much  to  our  advantage  that  the 
wife  of  the  Onorevole  Del  Ferice 
should  be  seen  seated  in  the  midst  of 
the  Black  ladies.  It  will  produce  an 
unfavourable  impression. ' ' 

"  If  you  are  going  to  talk  of  impres- 
sions  "  Donna  Tullia  shrugged  her 

massive  shoulders. 

"  No,  my  dear.  You  mistake  me. 
I  am  not  going  to  talk  of  them,  because, 
as  I  at  once  told  you,  it  is  quite  right 
that  you  should  go  to  this  affair.  If 
you  go,  you  must  go  in  the  proper  way. 
No  doubt  there  will  be  people  who  will 
have  invitations  but  will  not  use  them. 
We  can  perhaps  procure  you  the  use 
of  such  a  ticket." 

"  I  do  not  care  what  name  is  on  the 
paper,  provided  I  can  sit  in  the  right 
place." 

**  Very  well,"  answered  Del  Ferice. 
**  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  I  expect  it  of  you,  Ugo.  It  is  not 
often  that  I  ask  anything  of  you,  is 
it  1  It  is  the  least  you  can  do.  The 
idea  of  getting  a  card  that  is  not  to  be 
used  is  good  ;  of  course  they  will  all 
get  them,  and  some  of  them  are  sure 
to  be  ill." 

Donna  Tullia  went  away  satisfied 
that  what  she  wanted  would  be  forth- 
coming at  the  right  moment.  What 
she  had  said  was  true.  She  rarely 
asked  anything  of  her  husband.  But 
when  she  did,  she  gave  him  to  under- 
stand that  she  would  have  it  at  any 
price.  It  was  her  way  of  asserting 
herself  from  time  to  time.  On  the 
present  occasion  she  had  no  especial 
interest  at  stake  and  any  other  woman 
might  have  been  satisfied  with  a  seat 
in  the  diplomatic  tribune,  which  could 
probably  have  been  obtained  without 
great  difficulty.  But  she  had  heard 
that  the  seats  there  were  to  be  very 
high  and  she  did  not  really  wish  to 
be  placed  in  too  prominent  a  position. 
The  light  might  be  unfavourable,  and 
she  knew  that  she  was  subject  to  grow- 
ing very  red  in  places  where  it  was  hot. 


She  had  once  been  a  handsome  woman 
and   a   very   vain  one,  but   even  her 
vanity  could  not  survive  the  daily  tor- 
ture of  the  looking-glass.     To  sit  for 
four   or  five   hours   in  a   high   light, 
facing  fifty  thousand  people,  was  more 
than  she  could  bear  with  equanimity. 
Del   Ferice,  being   left  to   himself, 
returned  to  the  question  of  the  mayor's 
decoration,  which  was  of  vastly  greater 
importance    to   bim   than    his   wife's 
position  at  the  approaching  function. 
If  he  failed  to  get  the  man  what  he 
wanted,   the  fellow    would   doubtless 
apply  to  some  one  of  the  opposite  party, 
would  receive  the  coveted  honour,  and 
would  take  the  whole  voting  population 
of   the   town  with   him    at   the  next 
general  election,  to  the  total  discom- 
fiture of  Del  Ferice.     It  was  necessary 
to  find  some  valid  reason  for  proposing 
him  for  the  distinction.  Ugo  could  not 
decide  what  to  do  just  then,  but  he 
ultimately  hit  upon  a  successful  plan. 
He  advised  his  correspondent  to  write 
a  pamphlet  upon  the  rapid  improve- 
ment of  agricultural   interests  in  his 
district  under  the   existing  Ministry, 
and  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  enclose 
with  his  letter  some  notes  on  the  sub- 
ject.    These  notes  proved  to  be  so  vol- 
uminous and  complete  that  when  the 
mayor  had  copied  them  he  could  not 
find  a  pretext  for  adding  a  single  word 
or  correction.    They  were  printed  upon 
excellent  paper,  with  ornamental  mar- 
gins,   under    the    title    of    Onwa/rd, 
Parthenope  I     Of    course    every    one 
knows  that  Parthenope  means  Naples, 
the   Neapolitans  and   the  Neapolitan 
province,  a  siren  of  that  name  having 
come  to  final  grief  somewhere  between 
the   Chiatamone  and   Posilippo.     The 
mayor   got    his   decoration,   and   Del 
Ferice  was  re-elected ;  but  no  one  has 
inquired  into  the  truth  of  the  state- 
ments  made    in   the   pamphlet   upon 
agriculture. 

It  is  clear  that  a  man  who  was  cap- 
able of  taking  so  much  trouble  for  so 
small  a  matter  would  not  disappoint 
his  wife  when  she  had  set  her  heart 
upon  such  a  trifle  as  a  ticket  for  the 
Jubilee.     Within   three  days   he  had 


JQon  Qrsino. 


247 


the  promise  of  what  he  wanted.  A 
certain  lonely  lady  of  high  position  lay 
very  ill  just  then,  and  it  need  scarcely 
be  explained  that  her  confidential 
servant  fell  upon  the  invitation  as  soon 
as  it  arrived  and  sold  it  for  a  round 
sum  to  the  first  applicant,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  Count  Del  Ferice's  valet. 
So  the  matter  was  arranged,  privately 
and  without  scandal. 

All  Rome  was  alive  with  expectation. 
The  date  fixed  was  the  first  of  January, 
and  as  the  day  approached  the  curious 
foreigner  mustered  in  his  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  and  took  the  city 
by  storm.  The  hotels  were  thronged. 
The  billiard  tables  were  let  as  furnished 
rooms,  people  slept  in  the  lifts,  on  the 
landings,  in  the  porters'  lodges.  The 
thrifty  Romans  retreated  to  roofs  and 
cellars  and  let  their  small  dwellings. 
People  reaching  the  city  on  the  last 
night  slept  in  the  cabs  they  had  hired 
to  take  them  to  Saint  Peter's  before 
dawn.  Even  the  supplies  of  food  ran 
low  and  the  hungry  fed  on  what  they 
could  get,  while  the  delicate  of  taste 
very  often  did  not  feed  at  all.  There 
was  of  course  the  usual  scare  about  a 
revolutionary  demonstration,  to  which 
the  natives  paid  very  little  attention, 
but  which  delighted  the  foreigners. 

Not  more  than  half  of  those  who 
hoped  to  witness  the  ceremony  saw 
anything  of  it,  though  the  basilica  will 
hold  some  eighty  thousand  people  at  a 
pinch,  and  the  crowd  on  that  occasion 
was  far  greater  than  at  the  opening  of 
the  (Ecumenical  Council  in  1869. 

Madame  d'Aragona  had  also  deter- 
mined to  be  present,  and  she  expressed 
her  desire  to  Gouache.  She  had  spoken 
tlie  strict  truth  when  she  had  said  that 
she  knew  no  one  in  Eome,  and  so  far  as 
general  accuracy  is  concerned  it  was 
equally  true  that  she  had  not  fixed  the 
length  of  her  stay.  She  had  not  come 
with  any  settled  purpose  beyond  a 
vague  idea  of  having  her  portrait 
painted  by  the  French  artist,  and  unless 
she  took  the  trouble  to  make  acquaint- 
ances, there  was  nothing  attractive 
enough  about  the  capital  to  keep  her. 
She  allowed  lierself  to  be  driven  about 


the  town,  on  pretence  of  seeing  churches 
and  galleries,  but  in  reality  she  saw 
very  little  of  either.  She  was  pre- 
occupied with  her  own  thoughts  and 
subject  to  fits  of  abstraction.  Most 
things  seemed  to  her  intensely  dull,  and 
the  unhappy  guide  who  had  been  select- 
ed to  accompany  her  on  her  excursions 
wasted  his  learning  upon  her  on  the  first 
morning,  and  subsequently  exhausted 
the  magnificent  catalogue  of  impossi- 
bilities which  he  had  concocted  for  the 
especial  benefit  of  the  uncultivated 
foreigner,  without  eliciting  so  much  as 
a  look  of  interest  or  an  expression  of 
surprise.  He  was  a  young  and  fascinat- 
ing guide,  wearing  a  white  satin  tie, 
and  on  the  third  day  he  recited  some 
verses  of  Stecchetti  and  was  about  to 
risk  a  declaration  of  worship  in  ornate 
prose,  when  he  was  suddenly  rather 
badly  scared  by  the  lady's  yellow  eyes, ' 
and  ran  on  nervously  with  a  string  of 
deceased  popes  and  their  dates. 

**  Get  me  a  card  for  the  Jubilee,"  she 
said  abruptly. 

"  An  entrance  is  very  easily  pro- 
cured," answered  the  guide.  "  In  fact 
I  have  one  in  my  pocket,  as  it  happens. 
I  bought  it  for  twenty  francs  this 
morning,  thinking  that  one  of  my 
foreigners  would  perhaps  take  it  of  me. 
I  do  not  even  gain  a  franc — my  word 
of  honour." 

Madame  d'Aragona  glanced  at  the 
slip  of  paper. 

"  Not  that,"  she  answered.  **  Do 
you  imagine  that  I  will  stand?  I 
want  a  seat  in  one  of  the  tribunes." 

The  guide  lost  himself  in  apologies, 
but  explained  that  he  could  not  get 
what  she  desired. 

**  What  are  you  for  %  "  she  inquired. 

She  was  an  indolent  woman,  but 
when  by  any  chance  she  wanted  any- 
thing, Donna  TuUia  herself  was  not 
more  restless.  She  drove  at  once  to 
Gouache's  studio.  He  was  alone  and 
she  told  him  what  she  needed. 

"  The  Jubilee,  madame  ]  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  have  been  forgotten  ] " 

*'  Since  they  have  never  heard  of 
me !  I  have  not  the  slightest  claim 
to  a  place." 


24S 


Don  Orsino^ 


'*  It  is  you  who  say  that.  But  your 
j>lace  is  already  secured.  Fear  no- 
thing. You  will  be  with  the  Roman 
ladies." 

"I  do  not  understand '' 

"  It  is  simple.  I  was  thinking  of  it 
yesterday.  Young  Saraeinesca  comes 
in  and  begins  to  talk  about  yoa 
*  There  is  Madame  d'Aragona  who  has 
no  seat/  he  says.  *  One  must  arrange 
that.'     So  it  is  arranged." 

"By  DonOrsinoT' 

"  You  would  not  accept  1  No  !  A 
young  man,  and  you  have  only  met 
once.  But  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
him.     Do  you  like  him  1 " 

"One  does  not  like  people  so  easily  as 
that,"  said  Madame  d'Aragona.  "  How 
have  you  arranged  about  the  seat  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  simple.  There  are  to 
)»e  two  days,  you  know.  My  wife 
has  her  cards  for  both,  of  course.  She 
Avill  only  go  once.  If  you  will  accept 
the  one  for  the  first  day  she  will  be 
very  happy." 

"  You  are  angelic,  my  dear  friend  ! 
Then  I  go  as  your  wife  1 "  She 
laughed. 

"  Precisely.  You  will  be  Faustina 
Gouache  instead  of  Madame  d'Ara- 
gona." 

"  How  delightful !  By  the  by,  do 
not  call  me  Madame  d'Aragona.  It 
is  not  my  name.  I  might  as  well  call 
you  Monsieur  de  Paris,  because  you 
are  a  Parisian." 

"  I  do  not  put  Anastase  Gouache  de 
Paris  on  my  cards,"  answered  Gouache 
with  a  laugh.  "  What  may  I  call 
you  ?     Donna  Maria  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Maria  Consuelo 
d'Aranjuez." 

"  An  ancient  Spanish  name,"  said 
Gouache. 

"  My  husband  was  an  Italian." 

"  Ah  !  Of  Spanish  descent,  origin- 
ally of  Aragona.     Of  course." 

"  Exactly.  Since  I  am  here,  shall  I 
sit  for  you  1  You  might  almost  finish 
to-day." 

**Not  so  soon  as  that.  It  is  Don 
Orsino's  hour,  but  as  he  has  not  come, 
and  since  you  are  so  kind — by  all 
means." 


(( 


Ah,  is  he  unpunctual  1 " 

"He  is  probably  running  after  those 
abominable  dogs  in  pursuit  of  the 
feeble  fox — what  they  call  the  noble 
sport." 

Gouache's  face  expressed  consider- 
able disgust. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Maria  Con- 
suelo.     "  He  has  nothing  else  to  do." 

**  He  will  get  used  to  it.  They  all 
do.  Besides,  it  is  really  the  natural 
condition  of  man.  Total  idleness  is  his 
element.  If  Providence  meant  man  to 
work,  it  should  have  given  him  two 
heads,  one  for  his  profession  and  one 
for  himself.  A  man  needs  one  entire 
and  undivided  intelligence  for  the 
study  of  his  own  individuality." 

"  What  an  idea  !  " 

"  Do  not  men  of  great  genius  no- 
toriously forget  themselves,  forget  to 
eat  and  drink  and  dress  themselves 
like  Christians  ?  That  is  because  they 
have  not  two  heads.  Providence  ex- 
pects a  man  to  do  two  things  at  once 
— sing  an  air  from  an  opera  and  in- 
vent the  steam-engine  at  the  same 
moment.  Nature  rebels.  Then  Pro- 
vidence and  nature  do  not  agree. 
What  becomes  of  religion  ?  It  is  all  a 
mystery.  Believe  me,  madame,  art  is 
easier  than  nature,  and  painting  is 
simpler  than  theology." 

Maria  Consuelo  listened  to  Gouache's 
extraordinary  remarks  with  a  smile. 

"  Yoa  are  either  paradoxical,  or  ir- 
religious, or  both,"  she  said. 

*' Irreligious]  I,  who  carried  a 
rifle  at  Mentana  ?  No,  madame,  I 
am  a  good  Catholic." 

"  What  does  that  mean  1 " 

"  I  believe  in  God,  and  I  love  my 
wife.  I  leave  it  to  the  Church  to 
define  my  other  articles  of  belief.  I 
have  only  one  head,  as  you  see." 

Gouache  smiled,  but  there  was  a 
note  of  sincerity  in  the  odd  statement 
which  did  not  escape  his  hearer. 

"  You  are  nob  of  the  type  which 
belongs  to  the  end  of  the  century," 
she  said. 

"  That  type  was  not  invented  when 
I  was  forming  myself." 

"Perhaps    you    belong    rather    to 


Don  Orsino* 


24D 


the  coming  age — the  age  of  simplifica- 
tion/' 

"As  distinguished  from  the  age 
of  mystification — religious,  political, 
scientific  and  artistic,"  suggested 
Gouache.  **  The  people  of  that  day- 
will  guess  the  Sphinx's  riddle.*' 

"  Mine  ?  You  were  comparing  me 
to  a  sphinx  the  other  day." 

"  Yours,  perhaps,  madame.  Who 
knows?  Are  you  the  typical  woman 
of  the  ending  century  1 " 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  Maria Consuelo 
with  a  sleepy  look. 

CHAPTER  V. 

There  is  something  grand  in  any 
great  assembly  of  animals  belonging 
to  the  same  race.  The  very  idea  of 
an  immense  number  of  living  creatures 
conveys  an  impression  not  suggested 
by  anything  else.  A  compact  herd  of 
fifty  or  sixty  thousand  lions  would  be 
an  appalling  vision,  beside  which  a 
like  multitude  of  human  beings  would 
sink  into  insignificance.  A  drove  of 
wild  cattle  is,  1  think,  a  finer  sight 
than  a  regiment  of  cavalry  in  motion, 
for  the  cavalry  is  composite,  half  man 
and  half  horse,  whereas  the  cattle  have 
the  advantage  of  unity.  But  we  can 
never  see  so  many  animals  of  any 
species  driven  together  into  one  limited 
space  as  to  be  equal  to  a  vast  throng 
of  men  and  women,  and  we  conclude 
naturally  enough  that  a  crowd  con- 
sisting solely  of  our  own  kind  is  the 
most  imposing  one  conceivable. 

It  was  scarcely  light  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Isew  Year's  Day  when  the 
Princess  Sant'  Ilario  found  herself 
seated  in  one  of  the  low  tribunes  on 
the  north  side  of  the  high  altar  in 
Saint  Peter's.  Her  husband  and  her 
eldest  son  had  accompanied  her,  and 
having  placed  her  in  a  position  from 
which  they  judged  she  could  easily 
escape  at  the  end  of  the  ceremony, 
they  remained  standing  in  the  narrow 
winding  passage  between  improvised 
barriers  which  led  from  the  tribune  to 
the  door  of  the  sacristy,  and  which 
had  been  so   arranged    as  to  prevent 


confusion.  Here  they  waited,  greeting 
their  acquaintances  when  they  could 
recognise  them  in  the  dim  twilight  of 
the  church,  and  watching  the  ever- 
increasing  crowd  that  surged  slowly 
backward  and  forward  outside  the 
barrier.  The  old  prince  was  entitled 
by  an  hereditary  office  to  a  place  in 
the  great  procession  of  the  day,  and 
was  not  now  with  them. 

Orsino  felt  as  though  the  whole 
world  were  assembled  about  him  with- 
in the  huge  cathedral,  as  though  its 
heart  were  beating  audibly  and  its 
muffled  breathing  rising  and  falling  in 
his  hearing.  The  unceasing  sound 
that  went  up  from  the  compact  mass 
of  living  beings  was  soft  in  quality, 
but  enormous  in  volume  and  sustained 
in  tone,  a  great  whispering  which 
might  have  been  heard  a  mile  away. 
One  hears  in  mammoth  musical  festi- 
vals the  extraordinary  effect  of  four 
or  five  thousand  voices  singing  very 
softly  ;  it  is  not  to  be  compared  to 
the  unceasing  whisper  of  fifty  thousand 
men. 

The  young -fellow  was  conscious  of 
a  strange,  irregular  thrill  of  enthusi- 
asm which  ran  through  him  from  time 
to  time  and  startled  his  imagination 
into  life.  It  was  only  the  instinct  of 
a  strong  vitality  unconsciously  longing 
to  be  the  central  point  of  the  vitalities 
around  it.  But  he  could  not  under- 
stand that.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a 
great  opportunity  brought  within 
reach  but  slipping  by  untaken,  not  to 
return  again.  He  felt  a  strange,  al- 
most uncontrollable  longing  to  spring 
upon  one  of  the  tribunes,  to  raise  his 
voice,  to  speak  to  the  great  multitude, 
to  fire  all  those  men  to  break  out  and 
carry  everything  before  them.  He 
laughed  audibly  at  himself.  Sapt' 
Ilario  looked  at  his  son  with  some 
curiosity. 

"  What  amuses  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"A  dream,"  answered  Orsino,  still 
smiling.  "  Who  knows,"  he  exclaimed 
after  a  pause,  "  what  would  happen, 
if  at  the  right  moment  the  right  man 
could  stir  such  a  crowd  as  this  1 " 

"  Strange    things,"    replied     Sant' 


250 


Don  Orsino, 


Ilario  gravely.  *'  A  crowd  is  a  terrible 
weapon." 

*'  Then  my  dream  was  not  so  foolish 
after  all.  One  might  make  history  to- 
day." 

Sant'  Ilario  made  a  gesture  expres- 
sive of  indifference. 

"  What  is  history  ?  "  he  asked.  "A 
comedy  in  which  the  actors  have  no 
written  parts,  but  improvise  their 
speeches  and  actions  as  best  they  can. 
That  is  the  reason  why  history  is  so 
dull  and  so  full  of  mistakes." 

"  And  of  surprises,"  suggested  Or- 
sino. 

"  The  surprises  in  history  are  al- 
ways disagreeable,  my  boy,"  answered 
Sant'  Ilario. 

Orsino  felt  the  coldness  in  the 
answer,  and  felt  even  more  his  father's 
readiness  to  damp  any  expies?ion  of 
enthusiasm.  Of  late  he  had  encoun- 
tered this  chilling  indifference  at  al- 
most every  turn,  whenever  he  gave 
vent  to  his  admiration  for  any  sort  of 
activity. 

It  was  not  that  Giovanni  Saracin- 
esca  had  any  intention  of  repressing 
his  son's  energetic  instincts,  and  he 
assuredly  had  no  idea  of  the  effect  his 
words  often  produced.  He  sometimes 
wondered  at  the  sudden  silence  which 
came  over  the  young  man  after  such 
conversations,  but  he  did  not  under- 
stand it  and  on  the  whole  paid  little 
attention  to  it.  He  remembered  that 
he  himself  had  been  different,  and  had 
been  wont  to  argue  hotly  and  not  un- 
frequently  to  quarrel  with  his  father 
about  triiles.  He  himself  had  been 
headstrong,  passionate,  often  intract- 
able in  his  early  youth,  and  his  father 
had  been  no  better  at  sixty  and  was 
little  improved  in  that  respect  even  at 
his  present  great  age.  But  Orsino 
did  not  argue.  He  suggested,  and  if 
any  one  disagreed  with  him  he  became 
silent.  He  seemed  to  possess  energy 
in  action,  and  a  number  of  rather  fan- 
tastic aspirations  ;  but  in  conversation 
he  was  easily  silenced  and  in  outward 
manner  he  would  have  seemed  too 
yielding  if  he  had  not  often  seemed 
too  cold. 


Giovanni  did  not  see  that  Orsino 
was  most  like  his  mother  in  character, 
while  the  contact  with  a  new  genera- 
tion had  given  him  something  unfa- 
miliar to  the  old,  an  affectation  at  first, 
but  one  which  habit  was  amalgamat- 
ing with  the  real  nature  beneath. 

No  doubt  it  was  wise  and 'right  to 
discourage  ideas  which  would  tend  in 
any  way  to  revolution.  Giovanni  had 
seen  revolutions  and  had  been  the 
loser  by  them.  It  was  not  wise,  and 
was  certainly  not  necessary  to  throw 
cold  water  on  the  young  fellow's  harm- 
less aspirations.  But  Giovanni  had 
lived  for  many  years  in  his  own  way, 
rich,  respected,  and  supremely  happy, 
and  he  believed  that  his  way  was  good 
enough  for  Orsino.  He  had,  in  his 
youth,  tried  most  things  for  himself, 
and  had  found  them  failures  so  far 
as  happiness  was  concerned.  Orsino 
might  make  the  series  of  experiments 
in  his  turn  if  he  pleased,  but  there 
was  no  adequate  reason  for  such  an 
expenditure  of  energy.  The  sooner 
the  boy  loved  some  girl  who  would 
make  him  a  good  wife,  and  the  sooner 
he  married  her,  the  sooner  he  would 
find  that  calm,  satisfactory  existence 
which  had  not  finally  come  to  Gio- 
vanni until  after  thirty  years  of  age. 

As  for  the  question  of  fortune,  it 
was  true  that  there  were  four  sons, 
but  there  was  Giovanni's  mother's 
fortune,  there  was  Corona's  fortune, 
and  there  was  the  great  Saracinesca 
estate  behind  both.  They  were  all  so 
extremely  rich  that  the  deluge  must 
be  very  distant. 

Orsino  understood  none  of  these 
things.  He  only  realised  that  his 
father  had  the  faculty,  and  apparently 
the  intention,  of  freezing  any  origin- 
ality he  chanced  to  show,  and  he  in- 
wardly resented  the  coldness,  quietly, 
if  foolishly,  resolving  to  astonish  those 
who  misunderstood  him  by  seizing  the 
first  opportunity  of  doing  something 
out  of  the  common  way.  For  some 
time  he  stood  in  silence  watching  the 
people  who  came  by  and  glancing  from 
time  to  time  at  the  dense  crowd  out- 
side  the   barrier.     He  was  suddenly 


Don  Orsino. 


251 


aware  that  his  father  was  observing 
intently  a  lady  who  advanced  along  the 
open  way. 

"  There  is  Tullia  Del  Ferice  1  *'  ex- 
claimed Sant'  Ilario  in  surprise. 

"I  do  not  know  her,  except  by 
sight,"  observed  Orsino  indifferently. 

The  countess  was  very  imposing  in 
her  black  veil  and  draperies.  Her 
red  face  seemed  to  lose  its  colour  in 
the  dim  church,  and  she  affected  a 
slow  and  stately  manner  more  becom- 
ing to  her  weight  than  was  her  natural 
restless  vivacity.  She  had  got  what 
she  desired  and  she  swept  proudly 
along  to  take  her  old  place  among  the 
ladies  of  Kome.  No  one  knew  whose 
card  she  had  delivered  up  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  sacristy,  and  she  enjoyed 
the  triumph  of  showing  that  the  wife 
of  the  revolutionary,  the  banker,  the 
member  of  parliament,  had  not  lost 
caste  after  all. 

She  looked  Giovanni  full  in  the  face 
with  her  disagreeable  blue  eyes  as  she 
came  up,  apparently  not  meaning  to 
recognise  him.  Then,  just  as  she 
passed  him,  she  deigned  to  make  a 
very  slight  inclination  of  the  head, 
just  enough  to  compel  Sant*  Ilario  to 
return  the  salutation.  It  was  very 
well  done.  Orsino  did  not  know  all 
the  details  of  the  past  events,  but  he 
knew  that  his  father  had  once  wounded 
Del  Ferice  in  a  duel  and  he  looked  at 
Del  Ferice's  wife  with  some  curiosity. 
He  had  seldom  had  an  opportunity  of 
being  so  near  to  her. 

"  It  was  certainly  not  about  her 
that  they  fought,"  he  reflected.  "  It 
must  have  been  about  some  other  wo- 
man, if  there  was  a  woman  in  the  ques- 
tion at  all." 

A  moment  later  he  was  aware  that 
a  pair  of  tawny  eyes  were  fixed  on  him. 
Maria  Consuelo  was  following  Donna 
Tullia  at  a  distance  of  a  dozen  yards. 
Orsino  came  forward  and  his  new  ac- 
quaintance held  out  her  hand.  They 
had  not  met  since  they  had  first  seen 
each  other. 

'*  It  was  so  kind  of  you,"  she  said. 

"  What,  madame  ? " 

*'  To    suggest    this  to   Gouache.     I 


should   have    had    no    ticket — where 
shall  I  sit  1 " 

Orsino  did  not  understand,  for 
though  he  had  mentioned  the  subject, 
Gouache  had  not  told  him  what  he 
meant  to  do.  But  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost  in  conversation.  Orsino  led 
her  to  the  nearest  opening  in  the  tri- 
bune and  pointed  to  a  seat. 

"  I  called,"  he  said  quickly.  "  You 
did  not  receive " 

"  Come  again  ;  I  will  be  at  home," 
she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
passed  him. 

She  sat  down  in  a  vacant  place  be- 
side Donna  Tullia,  and  Orsino  noticed 
that  his  mother  was  just  behind  them 
both.  Corona  had  been  watching  him 
unconsciously,  as  she  often  did,  and 
was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  him 
conducting  a  lady  whom  she  did  not 
know.  A  glance  told  her  that  the 
lady  was  a  foreigner;  as  such,  if  she 
were  present  at  all,  she  should  have 
been  in  the  diplomatic  tribune. 
There  was  nothing  to  think  of,  and 
Corona  tried  to  solve  the  small  social 
problem  that  presented  itself.  Orsino 
strolled  back  to  his  father's  side. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  inquired  Sant' 
Ilario  with  some  curiosity. 

"The  lady  who  wanted  the  tiger's 
skin  —  Aranjuez  —  I  told  you  of 
her." 

"  The  portrait  you  gave  me  was  not 
flattering.  She  is  handsome,  if  not 
beautiful." 

"Did  I  say  she  was  notT'  asked 
Orsino  with  a  visible  irritation  most 
unlike  him. 

"  I  thought  so.  You  said  she  had 
yellow  eyes,  red  hair,  and  a  squint." 
Sant'  Ilario  laughed. 

"  Perhaps  I  did.  But  the  effect 
seems  to  be  harmonious." 

"  Decidedly  so.  You  might  have  in- 
troduced me." 

To  this  Orsino  said  nothing,  but 
relapsed  into  a  moody  silence.  He 
would  have  liked  nothing  better  than 
to  bring  about  the  acquaintance,  but 
he  had  only  met  Maria  Consuelo  once, 
though  that  interview  had  been  a  long 
one,   and  he  remembered   her  rather 


252 


Don  Orsino, 


short  answer  to  his  offer  of  service  in 
the  way  of  making  acquaintances, 

Maria  Consuelo  on  her  part  was 
quite  unconscious  that  she  was  sitting 
in  front  of  the  Princess  Sant*  Ilario, 
but  she  had  seen  the  lady  by  her  side 
bow  to  Orsino*s  companion  in  passing, 
and  she  guessed  from  a  certain  resem- 
blance that  the  dark,  middle-aged  man 
might  be  young  Saracinesca's  father. 
Donna  Tullia  had  seen  Corona  well 
enough,  but  as  they  had  not  spoken 
for  nearly  twenty  years  she  decided 
not  to  risk  a  nod  where  she  could  not 
command  an  acknowledgment  of  it. 
So  she  pretended  to  be  quite  uncon- 
scious of  her  old  enemy's  presence. 

Donna  Tullia,  however,  had  noticed 
as  she  turned  her  head  in  sitting  down 
that  Orsino  was  piloting  a  strange 
lady  to  the  tribune,  and  when  the 
latter  sat  down  beside  her,  she  deter- 
mined to  make  her  acquaintance,  no 
matter  upon  what  pretext.  The  time 
was  approaching  at  which  the  proces- 
sion was  to  make  its  appearance,  and 
Donna  Tullia  looked  about  for  some- 
thing upon  which  to  open  the  conver- 
sation, glancing  from  time  to  time  at 
her  neighbour.  It  was  easy  to  see 
that  the  place  and  the  surroundings 
were  equally  unfamiliar  to  the  new- 
comer, who  looked  with  evident  interest 
at  the  twisted  columns  of  the  high 
altar,  at  the  vast  mosaics  in  the  dome, 
at  the  red  damask  hangings  of  the 
nave,  at  the  Swiss  guards,  the  cham- 
berlains in  court  dress,  and  at  all  the 
mediaeval-looking,  motley  figures  that 
moved  about  within  the  space  kept 
open  for  the  coming  function. 

**  It  is  a  wonderful  sight,"  said 
Donna  Tullia  in  French,  very  softly, 
and  almost  as  though  speaking  to  her- 
self. 

"Wonderful  indeed,"  answered 
Maria  Consuelo,  "  especially  to  a 
stranger." 

"  Madame  is  a  stranger,  then,"  ob- 
served Donna  Tullia  with  an  agreeable 
smile. 

She  looked  into  her  neighbour's 
face  and  for  the  first  time  realised 
that  she  was  a  striking  person. 


"  Quite,"  replied  the  latter,  briefly, 
and  as  though  not  wishing  to  press 
the  conversation. 

"  I  fancied  so,"  said  Donna  Tullia, 
"  though  on  seeing  you  in  these  seats, 
among  us  Romans " 

"  I  received  a  card  through  the 
kindness  of  a  friend." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during 
which  Donna  Tullia  concluded  that 
the  friend  must  have  been  Orsino. 
But  the  next  remark  threw  her  off 
the  scent. 

**  It  was  his  wife's  ticket,  I  believe," 
said  Maria  Consuelo.  "  She  could  not 
come.  I  am  here  on  false  pretences." 
She  smiled  carelessly. 

Donna  Tullia  lost  herself  in  specu- 
lation, but  failed  to  solve  the  pro- 
blem. 

"  You  have  chosen  a  most  favourable 
moment  for  your  first  visit  to  Rome," 
she  remarked  at  last. 

"Yes.  I  am  always  fortunate.  I 
believe  I  have  seen  everything  worth 
seeing  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"  She  is  somebody,"  thought  Donna 
Tullia.  "Probably  the  wife  of  a 
diplomatist,  though.  Those  people 
see  everything,  and  talk  of  nothing 
but  what  they  have  seen." 

"This  is  historic,"  she  said  aloud. 
"  You  will  have  a  chance  of  contem- 
plating the  Romans  in  their  glory. 
Colonna  and  Orsino  marching  side  by 
side,  and  old  Saracinesca  in  all  his 
magnificence.  He  is  eighty-two  years 
old." 

"  Saracinesca  !  "  repeated  Maria 
Consuelo,  turning  her  tawny  eyes  upon 
her  neighbour. 

"Yes.  The  father  of  Sant'  Ilario 
—  grandfather  of  that  young  fellow 
who  showed  you  to  your  seat." 

"  Don  Orsino  1  Yes,  I  know  him 
slightly." 

Corona  sitting  immediately  behind 
them  heard  her  son's  name.  As  the 
two  ladies  turned  towards  each  other 
in  conversation  she  heard  distinctly 
what  they  said.  Donna  Tullia  was  of 
course  aware  of  this. 

"Do  youl"  she  asked.  "His 
father  is  a  most  estimable  man — just 


Don  Orsino, 


233 


a  little  too  estimable,  if  you   under- 
stand !     As  for  the  boy " 

Donna  Tullia  moved  her  broad 
shoulders  expressively.  It  was  a 
habit  of  which  even  the  irreproach- 
able Del  Ferice  could  not  cure  her. 
Corona's  face  darkened. 

*'  You  can  hardly  call  him  a  boy," 
observed  MHria  Consuelo  with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  well — I  might  have  been  his 
mother,"  Donna  Tullia  answered  with 
a  contempt  for  the  affectation  of 
youth  which  she  rarely  showed.  But 
Corona  began  to  understand  that  the 
conversation  was  meant  for  her  ears, 
and  grew  angry  by  degrees.  Donna 
Tullia  had  indeed  been  near  to  marry- 
ing Giovanni,  and  in  that  sense,  too, 
she  might  have  been  Orsino's  mother. 

"  I  fancied  you  spoke  rather  dis- 
paragingly," said  Maria  Consuelo, 
with  a  certain  degree  of  interest. 

"  I  ]  No,  indeed.  On  the  contrary, 
Don  Orsino  is  a  very  fine  fellow — 
but  thrown  away,  positively  thrown 
away  in  his  present  surroundings.  Of 
what  use  is  all  this  English  educa- 
tion— but  you  are  a  stranger,  madame, 
you  cannot  understand  our  Koman 
point  of  view." 

"  If  you  could  explain  it  to  me,  I 
might,  perhaps,"  suggested  the  other. 

"  Ah,  yes — if  I  could  explain  it  ! 
But  I  am  far  too  ignorant  myself — no, 
ignorant  is  not  the  word — too  preju- 
diced, perhaps,  to  make  you  see  it 
quite  as  it  is.  Perhaps  I  am  a  little 
too  liberal,  and  the  Saracinesca  are 
certainly  far  too  conservative.  They 
mistake  education  for  progress.  Poor 
Don  Orsino,  I  am  sorry  for  him." 

Donna  Tullia  found  no  other  escape 
from  the  difficulty  into  which  she  had 
thrown  herself. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  to  be 
pitied,"  said  Maria  Consuelo. 

'*  Oh,  not  he  in  particular,  perhaps," 
answered  the  stout  countess,  growing 
more  and  more  vague.  "  They  are  all 
to  be  pitied,  you  know.  What  is  to 
become  of  young  men  brought  up  in 
that  way]  The  club,  the  turf,  the 
card-table — to  drink,  to  gamble,  to 
bet,  it  is  not  an  existence  ! " 


»j 


**Do  you  mean  that  Don  Orsino 
leads  that  sort  of  life  ? "  inquired 
Maria  Consuelo  indifferently. 

Again  Donna  Tullia' s  heavy  shoul- 
ders moved  contemptuously. 

"  What    else   is  there    for  him   to  / 
dol" 

**  And  his  father  ]  Did  he  not  do 
likewise  in  his  youth  1 " 

"  His  father )  Ah,  he  was  different 
— before  he  married — full  of  life, 
activity,  originality  !  " 

"  And  since  his  marriage  1 

**  He  has  become  estimable,  most 
estimable."  The  smile  with  which 
Donna  Tullia  accompanied  the  state- 
ment was  intended  to  be  fine,  but  was 
only  spiteful.  Maria  Consuelo,  who 
saw  everything  with  her  sleepy  glance, 
noticed  the  fact. 

Corona  was  disgusted,  and  leaned 
back  in  her  seat,  as  far  as  possible,  in 
order  not  to  hear  more.  She  could 
not  help  wondering  who  the  strange 
lady  might  be  to  whom  Donna  Tullia 
was  so  freely  expressing  her  opinions 
concerning  the  Saracinesca,  and  she 
determined  to  ask  Orsino  after  the 
ceremony.  But  she  wished  to  hear  as 
little  more  as  she  could. 

"  When  a  married  man  becomes 
what  you  call  estimable,"  said  Donna 
Tullia' s  companion,  "  he  either  adores 
his  wife  or  hates  her." 

"  What  a  charming  idea  !  "  laughed 
the  countess.  It  was  tolerably  evi- 
dent that  the  remark  was  beyond 
her. 

**  She  is  stupid,"  thought  Maria 
Consuelo.  **  I  fancied  so  from  the 
first.  I  will  ask  Don  Orsino  about 
her.  He  will  say  something  amusing. 
It  will  be  a  subject  of  conversation  at 
all  events,  in  place  of  that  endless 
tiger  I  invented  the  other  day.  I 
wonder  whether  this  woman  expects 
me  to  tell  her  who  I  am  1  That  will 
amount  to  an  acquaintance.  She  is 
certainly  somebody,  or  she  would  not 
be  here.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
seems  to  dislike  the  only  man  I  know 
besides  Gouache.  That  may  lead  to 
complications.  Let  us  talk  of  Gouache 
first,  and  be  guided  by  circumstances." 


254 


Don  Orsino. 


**  Do  you  know  Monsieur  Gouache?  *' 
she  inquired  abruptly. 

**  The  painter  1  Yes  —  I  have  known 
him  a  long  time.  Is  he  perhaps  paint- 
ing your  portrait  1 " 

"  Exactly.  It  is  really  for  that  pur- 
pose that  I  am  in  Rome.  What  a 
charming  man  !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  1  Perhaps  he  is. 
He  painted  me  some  time  ago.  I  was 
not  very  well  satisfied.  But  he  has 
talent." 

Donna  Tullia  had  never  forgiven 
the  artist  for  not  putting  enough 
soul  into  the  picture  he  had  painted 
of  her  when  she  was  a  very  youog 
widow. 

'*  He  has  a  great  reputation,"  said 
Maria  Consuelo,  **  and  I  think  he  will 
succeed  very  well  with  me.  Besides, 
I  am  grateful  to  him.  He  and  his 
painting  Lave  been  a  pleasant  episode 
in  my  short  stay  here." 

**  Beally  ?  I  should  hardly  have 
thought  you  could  find  it  worth  your 
while  to  come  all  the  way  to  Rome  to 
be  painted  by  Gouache,"  observed 
Donna  Tnllia.  "  But  of  course,  as  I 
say,  he  has  talent." 

*'  This  woman  is  rich,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  The  wives  of  diplomatists 
do  not  allow  themselves  such  caprices, 
as  a  rule.     I  wonder  who  she  is  1 " 

**  Great  talent,"  assented  Maria 
Consuelo.  "  And  great  charm,  I 
think." 

"  Ah,  well — of  course — 1  dare  say. 
We  Romans  cannot  help  thinking  that 
for  an  artist  he  is  a  little  too  much 
occupied  in  being  a  gentleman — and 
for  Ji  gentleman  he  is  quite  too  much 
an  artist." 

The  remark  was  not  original  with 
Donna  Tullia,  but  had  been  reported 
to  her  as  Spicca's,  and  Spicca  had 
really  snid  something  similar  about 
somebody  else 

'*  I  had  not  got  that  impression," 
said  Marin  Consuelo,  quietly. 

*'  She  hates  him  too,"  she  thought. 
"  She  seems  to  hate  everybody.  That 
either  means  that  she  knows  every- 
body, or  is  not  received  in  society. 
But  of  course  you  know  him  better 


than  I  do,"  she  added  aloud,  after  a 
little  pause. 

At  that  moment  a  strain  of  music 
broke  out  above  the  great,  soft, 
muffled  whispering  that  filled  the 
basilica.  Some  thirty  chosen  voices 
of  the  choir  of  St.  Peter's  had 
begun  the  hymn  Tu  es  Petrua,  as 
the  procession  began  to  defile  from  the 
south  aisle  into  the  nave,  close  by  the 
great  door,  to  traverse  the  whole  dis- 
tance thence  to  the  high  altar.  The 
Pope's  own  choir,  consisting  solely  of 
the  singers  of  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
waited  silently  behind  the  lattice  under 
the  statue  of  Saint  Veronica. 

The  song  rang  out  louder  and  louder, 
simple  and  grand.  Those  who  have 
heard  Italian  singers  at  their  best 
know  that  thirty  young  Roman  throats 
can  emit  a  volume  of  sound  equal  to 
that  which  a  hundred  men  of  any 
other  nation  could  produce.  The  still- 
ness around  them  increased,  too,  as 
the  procession  lengthened.  The  great, 
dark  crowd  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
breathless  with  expectation,  each  man 
and  woman  feeling  for  a  few  short 
moments  that  thrill  of  mysterious 
anxiety  and  impatience  which  Orsino 
had  felt.  Ko  one  who  was  there  can 
ever  forget  what  followed.  More  than 
forty  cardinals  filed  out  in  front  from 
the  Chapel  of  the  Pieta.  Then  the 
hereditary  assistants  of  the  Holy  See, 
the  heads  of  the  Colonna  and  the 
Orsini  houses,  entered  the  nave,  side 
by  side  for  the  first  time,  I  believe,  in 
history.  Immediately  after  them,  high 
above  all  the  procession  and  the  crowd, 
appeared  the  great  chair  of  state,  the 
huge  white  feathered  fans  moving 
slowly  on  each  side,  and  upon  the 
throne,  the  central  figure  of  that  vast 
display,  sat  the  Pope,  Leo  the  Thir- 
teenth. 

Then,  without  warning  and  without 
hesitation,  a  shout  went  up  such  as 
had  never  been  heard  before  in  that 
dim  cathedral,  nor  will,  perhaps,  be 
heard  again.  "  Ftm  il  Paporlih! 
Long  life  to  the  Pope-King  !  "  At 
the  same  instant,  as  though  at  a  pre- 
concerted signal  —  utterly  impossible 


Don  Ch'sino. 


255 


in  such  a  throng — in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  the  dark  crowd  was  as  white 
as  snow.  In  every  hand  a  white  hand- 
kerchief was  raised,  fluttering  and 
waving  above  every  head.  And  the 
shout  once  taken  up,  drowned  the 
strong  voices  of  the  singers  as  long- 
drawn  thunder  drowns  the  pattering 
of  the  raindrops  and  the  sighing  of  the 
wind.  The  wonderful  face,  that  seemed 
to  be  carved  out  of  transparent  ala- 
baster, smiled  and  slowly  turned  from 
side  to  side  as  it  passed  by.  The  thin, 
fragile  hand  moved  unceasingly,  bless- 
ing the  people. 

Orsino  Saracinesca  saw  and  heard, 
and  his  young  face  turned  pale  while 
his  lips  set  themselves.  By  his  side,  a 
head  shorter  than  he,  stood  his  father, 
lost  in  thought  as  he  gazed  at  the 
mighty  spectacle  of  what  had  been, 
and  of  what  might  still  have  been, 
but  for  one  day  of  history's  sur- 
prises. 

Orsino  said  nothing,  but  he  glanced 
at  Sant'  Ilario'sface  as  though  to  remind 
his  father  of  what  he  had  said  half  an 
hour  earlier  ;  and  the  elder  man  knew 
that  there  had  been  truth  in  the  boy's 
words.  There  were  soldiers  in  the 
church,  and  thev  were  not  Italian 
soldiers — some  thousands  of  them  in 
all,  perhaps.  They  were  armed,  and 
there  were  at  the  very  least  computa- 
tion' thirty  thousand  strong,  grown 
men  in  the  crowd.  And  the  crowd 
was  on  fire.  Had  there  been  a  hundred, 
nay  a  score,  of  desperate,  devoted 
leaders  there,  who  knows  what  bloody 
work  might  not  have  been  done  in  the 
city  before  the  sun  went  down  1  Who 
knows  what  new  surprises  history 
might  have  found  for  her  play  1  The 
thought  must  have  crossed  many 
minds  at  that  moment.  But  no  one 
stirred  ;  the  religious  ceremony  re- 
mained a  religious  ceremony  and 
nothing  more  ;  holy  peace  reigned 
within  the  walls,  and  the  hour  of  peril 
glided  away  undisturbed  to  take  its 
place  among  memories  of  good. 

*'  The  world  is  worn  out  !  "  thought 
Orsino.  "  The  days  of  great  deeds  are 
over.     Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to- 


morrow   we    die — they    are    right   in 
teaching  me  their  philosophy." 

A  gloomy,  sullen  melancholy  took 
hold  of  the  boy's  young  nature,  a  pass- 
ing mood,  perhaps,  but  one  which  left 
its  mark  upon  him.  For  he  was  at 
that  age  when  a  very  little  thing  will 
turn  the  balance  of  a  character,  when 
an  older  man's  .thoughtless  words  may 
direct  half  a  lifetime  in  a  good  or  evil 
channel,  being  recalled  and  repeated 
for  a  score  of  years.  Who  is  it  that 
does  not  remember  that  day  when  an 
impatient  **  I  will,"  or  a  defiant  "  I 
will  not,"  turned  the  whole  current 
of  his  existence  in  the  one  direction 
or  the  other,  towards  good  or  evil, 
towards  success  or  failure  1  Who, 
that  has  fought  his  way  against  odds 
into  the  front  rank,  has  forgotten  the 
woman's  look  that  gave  him  courage, 
or  the  man's  sneer  that  braced  nerve 
and  muscle  to  strike  the  first  of  many 
hard  blows  1 

The  depression  which  fell  upon 
Orsino  was  lasting,  for  that  morning 
at  least.  The  stupendous  pageant  went 
on  before  him,  the  choirs  sang,  the 
sweet  boys'  voices  answered  back,  like 
an  angel's  song,  out  of  the  lofty  dome, 
the  incense  rose  in  columns  through 
the  streaming  sunlight  as  the  high 
mass  proceeded.  Again  the  Pope  was 
raised  upon  the  chair  and  borne  out 
into  the  nave,  whence  in  the  solemn 
silence  the  thin,  clear,  aged  voice  in- 
toned the  benediction  three  times, 
slowly  rising  and  falling,  pausing  and 
beginning  again.  Once  more  the 
enormous  shout  broke  out,  louder  and 
deeper  than  ever,  as  the  procession 
moved  away.     Then  all  was  over. 

Orsino  saw  and  heard,  but  the  first 
impression  was  gone,  and  the  thrill 
did  not  come  back. 

"  It  was  a  fine  sight,"  he  said  to  hi^ 
father,  as  the  shout  died  away. 

"  A  fine  sight !  Have  you  no 
stronger  expression  than  that ) " 

"  No,"  answered  Orsino,  "  I  have 
not." 

The  ladies  were  already  coming  out 
of  the  tribunes,  and  Orsino  saw  his 
father  give  his  arm  to  Corona  to  lead 


256 


Don  Orsino, 


her  through  the  crowd.  Naturally 
enough,  Maria  Consuelo  and  Donna 
Tullia  came  out  together  very  soon 
after  her.  Orsino  offered  to  pilot  the 
former  through  the  confusion,  and  she 
accepted  gratefully.  Donna  Tullia 
walked  beside  them. 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  Don  Orsino," 
said  she,  with  a  graciqus  smile. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon — you  are  the 
Countess  del  Ferice — 1  have  not  been 
back  from  England  long,  and  have  not 
had  an  opportunity  of  being  pre- 
sented." 

Whatever  might  be  Orsino* s  weak- 
nesses, shyness  was  certainly  not  one 
of  them,  and  as  he  made  the  civil 
answer  he  calmly  looked  at  Donna 
Tullia  as  though  to  inquire  what  in 
the  world  she  wished  to  accomplish  in 
making  his  acquaintance.  He  had 
been  so  situated  during  the  ceremony 
as  not  to  see  that  the  two  ladies  had 
fallen  into  conversation. 

**Will  you  introduce  me?*'  said 
Maria  Consuelo.  "  We  have  been 
talking  together." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but  the 
words  could  hardly  have  escaped 
Donna  Tullia.  Orsino  was  very  much 
surprised  and  not  by  any  means 
pleased,  for  he  saw  that  the  elder 
woman  had  forced  the  introduction  by 
a  rather  vulgar  trick.  Nevertheless, 
he  could  not  escape. 

*'  Since  you  have  been  good  enctugh 
to  recognise  me,"  he  said  rather  stiffly 
to  Donna  Tullia,  "  permit  me  to  make 
you  acquainted  with  Madame  d'Aran- 
juez  d'Aragona." 

Both  ladies  nodded  and  smiled  the 
smile  of  the  newly  introduced.  Donna 
Tullia  at  once  began  to  wonder 
how  it  was  that  a  person  with  such 
a  name  should  have  but  a  plain 
"  madame  "  to  put  before  it.  But 
her  curiosity  was  not  satisfied  on  this 
occasion. 

"  How  absurd  society  is  1 "  she 
exclaimed.  *'  Madame  d'Aranjuez  and 
I  have  been  talking  all  the  morning, 
quite  like  old  friends — and  now  we 
need  an  introduction  !  " 

Maria  Consuelo  glanced  at  Orsino  as 


though  expecting  him  to  make  some 
remark.     But  he  said  nothing. 

"  What  should  we  do  without  con- 
ventions 1 "  she  said,  for  the  sake  of 
saying  something. 

By  this  time  they  were  threading 
the  endless  passages  of  the  sacristy 
building,  on  their  way  to  the  Piazza 
Santa  Marta.  Sant*  Ilario  and  Corona 
were  not  far  in  front  of  them.  At  a 
turn  in  the  corridor  Coroiia  looked 
back. 

"There  is  Orsino  talking  to  Tullia 
Del  Ferice !  "  she  exclaimed  in  great 
surprise.  "  And  he  has  given  his  arm 
to  that  other  lady  who  was  next  to 
her  in  the  tribune." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  asked  Sant' 
Ilario  indifferently.  **  By  the  by,  the 
other  lady  is  that  Madame  d'Aranjuez 
he  talks  about." 

*'  Is  she  any  relation  of  your 
mother's  family,  Giovanni  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  am  aware  of.  She  may 
have  married  some  younger  son  of 
whom  I  never  heard." 

"You  do  not  seem  to  care  whom 
Orsino  knows,"  said  Corona  rather 
reproachfully. 

"  Orsino  is  grown  up,  dear.  You 
must  not  forget  that." 

"  Yes — I  suppose  he  is,"  Corona 
answered  with  a  little  sigh.  "  But 
surely  you  will  not  encourage  him  to 
cultivate  the  Del  Ferice  ! " 

"  I  fancy  it  would  take  a  deal  of 
encouragement  to  drive  him  to  that," 
said  Sant'  Ilario  with  a  laugh.  "  He 
has  better  taste." 

There  was  some  confusion  outside. 
People  were  waiting  for  their  carriages, 
and  as  most  of  them  knew  each  other 
intimately  every  one  was  talking  at 
once.  Donna  Tullia  nodded  here  and 
there,  but  Maria  Consuelo  noticed 
that  her  salutations  were  coldly 
returned.  Orsino  and  his  two  com- 
panions stood  a  little  aloof  from  the 
crowd.  Just  then  the  Saracinesca 
carriage  drove    up. 

"  Who  is  that  magnificent  woman  ? " 
asked  Maria  Consuelo,  as  Corona  got  in. 

"My  mother,"  said  Orsino.  "My 
father  is  getting  in  now." 


Don  Orsino. 


267 


"There  comes  my  carriage  !  Please 
help  me." 

A  modest  hired  brougham  made 
its  appearance.  Orsino  hoped  that 
Madame  d'Aranjuez  would  offer  him 
a  seat.     But  he  was  mistaken. 

"  I  am  afraid  mine  is  miles  away," 
said  Donna  Tullia.  "  Good-bye,  I 
shall  be  so  glad  if  you  will  come  and 
see  me."     She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  May  I  not  take  you  home  1 "  asked 
Maria  Consuelo.  "  There  is  just  room 
— it  will  be  better  than  waiting  here." 

Donna  Tullia  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  accepted,  to  Orsino's  great 
annoyance.  He  helped  the  two  ladies 
to  get  in,  and  shut  the  door. 

**  Come  soon,"  said  Maria  Consuelo, 
giving  him  her  hand  out  of  the 
window. 

He  was  inclined  to  be  angry,  but 
the  look  that  accompanied  the  invita- 
tion did  its  work  satisfactorily. 

"  He  is  very  young,"  thought  Maria 
Consuelo,  as  she  drove  away. 

"She  can  be  very  amusing.  It  is 
worth  while,"  said  Orsino  to  himself 
as  he  passed  in  front  of  the  next 
carriage,  and  walked  out  upon  the 
small  square. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  hindered  as  he 
was  at  every  step,  when  some  one 
touched  his  arm.  It  was  Spicca, 
looking  more  cadaverous  and  exhausted 
than  usual. 

"Are  you  going  home  in  a  cab?" 
he  asked.     "  Then  let  us  go  together." 

They  got  out  of  the  square,  scarcely 
knowing  how  they  had  accomplished 
the  feat.  Spicca  seemed  nervous  as 
well  as  tired,  and  he  leaned  on  Orsino's 
arm. 

"There  was  a  chance  lost  this 
morning,"  said  the  latter  when  they 
were  under  the  colonnade.  He  felt 
sure  of  a  bitter  answer  from  the  keen 
old  man. 

"Why  did  you  not  seize  it  then?" 
asked  Spicca.  "  Do  you  expect  old 
men  like  me  to  stand  up  and  yell  for 
a  republic,  or  a  restoration,  or  a  mon- 
archy, or  whichever  of  the  other 
seven  plagues  of  Egypt  you  desire? 
I  have  not  voice  enough  left  to  call 
No.  :)88. — VOL.  i.xv. 


a   cab,    much   less   to   howl   down   a 
kingdom." 

"  I  wonder  what  would  have  hap- 
pened if  I,  or  some  one  else,  had 
tried." 

"You  would  have  spent  the  night 
in  prison  with  a  few  kindred  spirits. 
After  all,  that  would  have  been  better 
than  making  love  to  old  Donna  Tullia 
and  her  young  friend." 

Orsino  laughed. 

"  You  have  good  eyes,"  he  said. 

"  So  have  you,  Orsino.  Use  them. 
You  will  see  something  odd  if  you 
look  where  you  were  looking  this 
morning.  Do  you  know  what  sort  of 
a  place  this  world  is  ? " 

"  It  is  a  dull  place.  I  have  found 
that  out  already." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  It  is  hell.  Do 
you  mind  calling  that  cab  ?  " 

Orsino  stared  a  moment  at  his  com- 
panion, and  then  hailed  the  passing 
conveyance. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Orsino  had  shown  less  anxiety  to 
see  Madame  d'Aranjuez  than  might 
perhaps  have  been  expected.  In  the 
ten  days  which  had  elapsed  between 
the  sitting  at  Gouache's  studio  and 
the  first  of  January  he  had  only  once 
made  an  attempt  to  find  her  at  home, 
and  that  attempt  had  failed.  He  had 
not  even  seen  her  passing  in  the  street, 
apd  he  had  not  been  conscious  of  any 
uncontrollable  desire  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  at  any  price. 

But  he  had  not  forgotten  her  exist- 
ence, as  he  would  certainly  have  for- 
gotten that  of  a  wholly  indifferent 
person  in  the  same  time.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  had  thought  of  her  fre- 
quently and  had  indulged  in  many 
speculations  concerning  her,  wonder- 
ing among  other  matters  why  he  did 
not  take  more  trouble  to  see  her  since 
she  occupied  his  thoughts  so  much. 
He  did  not  know  that  he  was  in 
reality  hesitating,  for  he  would 
not  have  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  he  could  be  in  danger  of  falling 
seriously  in  love.     He  was  too  young 

s 


258 


Von  OrsiTw, 


to  admit  such  a  possibility,  and  the 
character  which  he  admired  and  meant 
to  assume  was  altogether  too  cold  and 
superior  to  such  weaknesses.  To  do 
him  justice,  he  was  really  not  of  the 
sort  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight.  Per- 
sons capable  of  a  self-imposed  dualism 
rarely  are,  for  the  second  nature  they 
build  up  on  the  foundation  of  their 
own  is  never  wholly  artificial.  The 
disposition  to  certain  modes  of  thought 
and  habits  of  bearing  is  really  pre- 
sent, and  is  sufficiently  proved  by 
their  admiration  of  both.  Very  shy 
persons,  for  instance,  invariably  ad- 
mire very  self-possessed  ones,  and  in 
trying  to  imitate  them  occasionally 
exhibit  a  cold-blooded  arrogance  which 
is  amazing.  Timothy  Titmouse  secretly 
looks  up  to  Don  Juan  as  his  ideal,  and 
after  half  a  lifetime  of  failure  outdoes 
his  model,  to  the  horror  of  his  friends. 
Dionysus  masks  as  Hercules,  and  the 
fox  is  sometimes  not  unsuccessful  in 
his  saint's  disguise.  To  be  short, 
Orsino  Saracinesca  was  too  enthu- 
siastic to  be  wholly  cold,  and  too 
thoughtful  to  be  thoroughly  enthu- 
siastic. He  saw  things  differently 
according  to  his  moods,  and  being  dis- 
satisfied, he  tried  to  make  one  mood 
prevail  constantly  over  the  other.  In 
a  mean  nature  the  double  view  often 
makes  an  untruthful  individual;  in 
one  possessing  honourable  instincts  it 
frequently  leads  to  unhappiness.  Affec- 
tation then  becomes  aspiration,  and  the 
man's  failure  to  impose  on  others  is 
forgotten  in  his  misery  at  failing  to 
impose  upon  himself. 

The  few  words  Orsino  had  ex- 
changed with  Maria  Consuelo  on  the 
morning  of  the  great  ceremony  re- 
called vividly  the  pleasant  hour  he 
had  spent  with  her  ten  days  earlier, 
and  he  determined  to  see  her  as  soon 
as  possible.  He  was  out  of  conceit 
with  himself  and  consequently  with 
all  those  who  knew  him,  and  he  looked 
forward  with  pleasure  to  the  conver- 
sation of  an  attractive  woman  who 
could  have  no  preconceived  opinion 
of  him,  and  who  could  take  him  at 
his  own   estimate.     He  was  curious, 


too,  to  find  out  something  more  defi- 
nite in  regard  to  her.  She  was  mys- 
terious, and  the  mystery  pleased  him. 
She  had  admitted  that  her  deceased 
husband  had  spoken  of  being  con- 
nected with  the  Saracinesca,  but  he 
could  not  discover  where  the  relation- 
ship lay.  Spicca's  very  odd  remark, 
too,  seemed  to  point  to  her  in  some 
way  which  Orsino  could  not  under- 
stand, and  he  remembered  her  having 
said  that  she  had  heard  of  Spicca. 
Her  husband  had  doubtless  been  an 
Italian  of  Spanish  descent,  but  she 
had  given  no  clue  to  her  own  nation- 
ality, and  she  did  not  look  Spanish,  in 
spite  of  her  name,  Maria  Consuelo. 
A.S  no  one  in  Rome  knew  her  it  was 
impossible  to  get  any  information 
whatever.  It  was  all  very  interesting. 

Accordingly,  late  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  second  of  January,  Orsino  called 
and  was  led  to  the  door  of  a  small 
sitting-room  on  the  second  floor  of 
the  hotel.  The  servant  shut  the  door 
behind  him  and  Orsino  found  himself 
alone.  A  lamp  with  a  pretty  shade 
was  burning  on  the  table  and  beside  it 
an  ugly  blue  glass  vase  contained  a  few 
flowers,  common  roses,  but  fresh  and 
fragrant.  Two  or  three  new  books  in  yel- 
low paper  covers  lay  scattered  upon  the 
hideous  velvet  table-cloth,  and  beside 
one  of  them  Orsino  noticed  a  mag- 
nificent paper-cutter  of  chiselled  silver, 
bearing  a  large  monogram  done  in  bril- 
liants and  rubies.  The  thing  con- 
trasted oddly  with  its  surroundings 
and  attracted  the  light.  An  easy 
chair  was  drawn  up  to  the  table,  an 
abominable  object  covered  with  per- 
fectly new  yellow  satin.  A  small  red 
morocco  cushion,  of  the  kind  used  in 
travelling,  was  balanced  on  the  back, 
and  there  was  a  depression  in  it,  as 
though  some  one's  head  had  lately 
rested  there. 

Orsino  noticed  all  these  details  as 
he  stood  waiting  for  Madame  d'Aran- 
juez  to  appear,  and  they  were  not 
without  interest  to  him,  for  each  one 
told  a  story,  and  the  stories  were  con- 
tradictory. The  room  was  not  encum- 
bered with  those  numberless  objects 


Don  Orsino. 


259 


which  most  women  scatter  about  them 
within  an  hour  after  reaching  an  hotel. 
Yet  Madame  d'Aranjuez  must  have 
been  at  least  a  month  in  Rome.  The 
room  smelt  neither  of  perfume  nor  of 
cigarettes,  but  of  the  roses,  which  was 
better,  and  a  little  of  the  lamp,  which 
was  much  worse.  The  lady's  only 
possessions  seemed  to  be  three  books, 
a  travelling  cushion,  and  a  somewhat 
too  gorgeous  paper-cutter ;  and  these 
few  objects  were  perfectly  new.  He 
glanced  at  the  books ;  they  were  of 
the  latest,  and  only  one  had  been  cut. 
The  cushion  might  have  been  bought 
that  morning.  Not  a  breath  had  tar- 
nished the  polished  blade  of  the  silver 
knife. 

A  door  opened  softly  and  Orsino 
drew  himself  up  as  some  one  pushed 
in  the  heavy,  vivid  curtains.  But  it 
was  not  Madame  d'Aranjuez.  A  small 
dark  woman  of  middle  age,  with  down- 
cast eyes  and  exceedingly  black  hair, 
came  forward  a  step. 

"  The  signora  will  come  presently,'* 
she  said  in  Italian,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
as  though  she  were  almost  afraid  of 
hearing  herself  speak. 

She  was  gone  in  a  moment,  as  noise- 
lessly as  she  had  come.  This  was 
evidently  the  silent  maid  of  whom 
Gouache  had  talked.  The  few  words 
she  had  spoken  had  revealed  to  Orsino 
the  fact  that  she  was  an  Italian  from 
the  north,  for  she  had  the  unmistak- 
able accent  of  the  Piedmontese,  whose 
own  language  is  comprehensible  only 
by  themselves. 

Orsino  prepared  to  wait  some  time, 
supposing  that  the  message  could 
hardly  have  been  sent  without  an 
object.  But  another  minute  had  not 
elapsed  before  Maria  Consuelo  herself 
appeared.  I  n  the  soft  lam  plight  her  clear 
white  skin  looked  very  pale  and  her  au- 
burn hair  almost  red.  She  wore  one  of 
those  nondescript  garments  which  we 
have  elected  to  call  tea-gowns,  and 
Orsino,  who  had  learned  to  criticise 
dress  as  he  had  learned  Latin  gram- 
mar, saw  that  the  tea-gown  was  good 
and  the  lace  real.  The  colours  pro- 
duced no  impression  upon  him  what- 


ever. As  a  matter  of  fact  they  were 
dark,  being  combined  in  various  shades 
of  olive. 

Maria  Consuelo  looked  at  her  visitor 
and  held  out  her  hand,  but  said  no- 
thing. She  did  not  even  smile,  and 
Orsino  began  to  fancy  that  he  had 
chosen  an  unfortunate  moment  for  his 
visit. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  let  me 
come,"  he  said,  waiting  for  her  to  sit 
down. 

Still  she  said  nothing.  She  placed 
the  red  morocco  cushion  carefully  in 
the  particular  position  which  would  be 
most  comfortable,  turned  the  shade  of 
the  lamp  a  little  which,  of  course,  pro- 
duced no  change  whatever  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  light,  pushed  one  of  the 
books  half  across  the  table,  and  at  last 
sat  down  in  the  easy  chair.  Orsino 
sat  down  near  her,  holding  his  hat 
upon  his  knee.  He  wondered  whether 
she  had  heard  him  speak,  or  whether 
she  might  not  be  one  of  those  people 
who  are  painfully  shy  when  there  is 
no  third  person  present. 

**I  think  it  was  very  good  of  you 
to  come,"  she  said  at  last,  when  she 
was  comfortably  settled. 

"  I  wish  goodness  were  always  so 
easy,"  answered  Orsino  with  alacrity. 

'*  Is  it  your  ambition  to  be  good?  " 
asked  Maria  Consuelo  with  a  smile. 

"  It  should  be.  But  it  is  not  a 
career." 

"  Then  you  do  not  believe  in 
saints  ? " 

"  Not  until  they  are  canonised  and 
made  articles  of  belief — unless  you  are 
one,  madame." 

"I  have  thought  of  trying  it,"  an- 
swered Maria  Consuelo  calmly.  *  *  Saint- 
ship  is  a  career,  even  in  society,  what- 
ever you  may  say  to  the  contrary.  It 
has  attractions,  after  all." 

**  Not  equal  to  those  of  the  other 
side.  Every  one  admits  that.  The 
majority  is  evidently  in  favour  of  sin, 
and  if  we  are  to  believe  in  modern 
institutions,  we  must  believe  that 
majorities  are  right." 

"Then  the  hero  is  always  wrong, 
for  he  is  the  enthusiastic  individual 

s  2 


260 


Don  Orsino. 


who  is  always  for  facing  odds,  and  if 
no  one  disagrees  with  him  he  is  very 

unhappy.     Yet  there  are  heroes " 

"Where?"  asked  Orsino.  "The 
heroes  people  talk  of  ride  bronze  horses 
on  inaccessible  pedestals.  When  the 
bell  rings  for  a  revolution  they  are  all 
knocked  down  and  new  ones  are  set 
up  in  their  places — also  executed  by 
the  best  artists — and  the  old  ones  are 
cast  into  cannon  to  knock  to  pieces 
the  ideas  they  invented.  That  is  called 
history." 

**  You  take  a  cheerful  and  encourag- 
ing view  of  the  world's  history,  Don 
Orsino." 

"  The  world  is  made  for  us,  and  we 
must  accept  it.  But  we  may  criticise 
it.  There  is  nothing  to  the  contrary 
in  the  contract." 

"  In  the  social  contract  ?  Are  you 
going  to  talk  to  me  about  Jean- 
Jacques?  " 

**  Have  you  read  him,  madame?  " 
*^  *  No     woman    who  respects    her- 
self   '  "     began    Maria    Consuelo, 

quoting  the  famous  preface. 

"I  see  that  you  have,"  said  Orsino, 
with  a  laugh.     "  I  have  not." 
"Nor  I." 

To  Orsino*  s  surprise,  Madame  d' Ar- 
an juez  blushed.  He  could  not  have 
told  why  he  was  pleased,  nor  why  her 
change  of  colour  seemed  so  unex- 
pected. 

"  Speaking  of  history,"  he  said,  after 
a  very  slight  pause,  "  why  did  you 
thank  me  yesterday  for  having  got  you 
a  card  ? " 

"  Did  you  not  speak  to  Gouache 
about  it?" 

"  I  said  something — I  forget  what. 
Did  he  manage  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  had  his  wife's  place. 
She  could  not  go.  Do  you  dislike 
being  thanked  for  your  good  offices? 
Are  you  so  modest  as  that  ? " 

**  Not  in  the  least,  but  I  hate  mis- 
understandings, though  I  will  get  all 
the  credit  I  can  for  what  I  have  not 
done,  like  other  people.  When  I  saw 
that  you  knew  the  Del  Ferice,  I  thought 
that  perhaps  she  had  been  exerting 
herself." 


"  Why  do  you  hate  her  so  ?  "  asked 
Maria  Consuelo. 

**  I  do  not  hate  her.  She  does  not 
exist — that  is  all." 

"  Why  does  she  not  exist,  as  you 
call  it  ?  She  is  a  very  good-natured 
woman.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Every- 
body hates  her — I  saw  that  by  the 
way  they  bowed  to  her  while  we 
were  waiting — why  ?  There  must  be 
a  reason.  Is  she  a — an  incorrect 
person  ? " 

Orsino  laughed. 

"  No.  That  is  the  point  at  which 
existence  is  more  likely  to  begin  than 
to  end." 

"  How  cynical  you  are !  I  do  not 
like  that.  Tell  me  about  Madame 
Del  Ferice." 

"  Very  well.  To  begin  with,  she  is 
a  relation  of  mine." 

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously.  Of  course  that  gives 
me  a  right  to  handle  the  whole 
dictionary  of  abuse  against  her." 

"  Of  course.  Are  you  going  to  do 
that?" 

"  No.  You  would  call  me  cynical. 
I  do  not  like  you  to  call  me  by  bad 
names,  madame." 

**  I  had  an  idea  that  men  liked  it," 
observed  Maria  Consuelo  gravely. 

"  One  does  not  like  to  hear  disagree- 
able truths." 

"Then  it  is  the  truth?  Go  on. 
You  have  forgotten  what  we  were 
talking  about." 

"  Not  at  all.  Donna  Tullia,  my 
second,  third,  or  fourth  cousin,  was 
married  once  upon  a  time  to  a  certain 
Mayer." 

"  And  left  him  %   How  interesting  ! " 

"  No,  madame.  He  left  her — very 
suddenly,  I  believe — for  another  world. 
Better  or  worse  ?  Who  can  say  ?  Con- 
sidering his  past  life,  worse,  I  suppose ; 
but  considering  that  he  was  not  obliged 
to  take  Donna  Tullia  with  him, 
decidedly  better." 

"  You  certainly  hate  her.  Then  she 
married  Del  Ferice." 

"  Then  she  married  Del  Ferice — 
before  I  was  born.  She  is  fabulously 
old.     Mayer  left  her   very  rich,  and 


Von  Orsino, 


261 


without  conditions.  Del  Ferice  was 
an  impossible  person.  My  father 
nearly  killed  him  in  a  duel  once — also 
•before  I  was  born.  I  never  knew 
what  it  was  about.  Del  Ferice  was  a 
spy,  in  the  old  days  when  spies  ^ot  a 
living  in  a  Rome " 

"  Ah  1  I  see  it  all  now  !  "  exclaimed 
Maria  Consuelo.  **  Del  Ferice  is  White, 
and  you  are  Black.  Of  course  you  hate 
each  other.  You  need  not  tell  me  any 
more." 

"  How  you  take  that  for  granted  !  " 

"  Is  it  not  perfectly  clear  %  Do  not 
talk  to  me  of  like  and  dislike  when 
your  dreadful  parties  have  anything  to 
do  with  either  !  Besides,  if  I  had  any 
sympathy  with  either  i^ide  it  would  be 
for  the  Whites.  But  the  whole  thing 
is  absurd,  complicated,  medieval,  feu- 
dal— anything  you  like  except  sensible. 
Your  intolerance  is — intolerable." 

"  True  tolerance  should  tolerate  even 
intolerance,"  observed  Orsino  smartly. 

"  That  sounds  like  one  of  the  puzzles 
of  pronunciation  like  *  in  un  inatto 
jyoco  cupo  jjoco  ])epe  jnsto  cape^  " 
laughed  Maria  Consuelo.  **  Tolerably 
tolerable  tolerance  tolerates  tolerable 
tolerance  intolerably " 

**  You  speak  Italian  ?  "  asked  Orsino, 
surprised  by  her  glib  enunciation  of 
the  difficult  sentence  she  had  quoted. 
**  Why  are  we  talking  a  foreign  lan- 
guage ? " 

**  I  cannot  really  speak  Italian.  I 
have  an  Italian  maid  who  speaks 
French.  But  she  taught  me  that 
puzzle." 

"  It  is  odd — your  maid  is  a  Pied- 
montese  and  you  have  a  good  accent." 

"  Have  I  ?  I  am  very  glad.  But 
tell  me,  is  it  not  absurd  that  you 
should  hate  these  people  as  you  do — 
you  cannot  deny  it — merely  because 
they  are  Whites?" 

**  Everything  in  life  is  absurd  if  you 
take  the  opposite  point  of  view. 
Lunatics  find  endless  amusement  in 
watching  sane  people." 

**  And,  of  course,  you  are  the  sane 
people,"  observed  Maria  Consuelo. 

*'  Of  course." 

**  What  becomes  of  me  1     I  suppose 


I  do  not  exist?  You  would  not  be 
rude  enough  to  class  me  with  the 
lunatics." 

"  Certainly  not.     You  will  of  course 
choose  to  be  a  Black." 

"  In  order  to    be    discontented,  as 
you  are  1 " 

"  Discontented  ? " 

**  Yes.  Are  you  not  utterly  out  of 
sympathy  with  your  surroundings  ? 
Are  you  not  hampered  at  every  step 
by  a  network  of  traditions  which  have 
no  meaning  to  your  intelligence,  but 
which  are  laid  on  you  like  a  harness 
upon  a  horse,  and  in  which  you  are 
driven  your  daily  little  round  of  tire- 
some amusement — or  dissipation  ?  Do 
you  not  hate  the  Corso  as  an  omnibus 
horse  hates  it  ]  Do  you  not  really 
hate  the  very  faces  of  all  those  people 
who  effectually  prevent  you  from  using 
your  own  intelligence,  your  own 
strength — your  own  heart  ?  One  sees 
it  in  your  face.  You  are  too  young 
to  be  tired  of  life.  No,  I  am  not 
going  to  call  you  a  boy,  though  I  am 
older  than  you,  Don  Orsino.  You  will 
find  people  enough  in  your  own  sur- 
roundings to  call  you  a  boy — because 
you  are  not  yet  so  utterly  tamed  and 
wearied  as  they  are,  and  for  no  other 
reason.  You  are  a  man.  I  do  not 
know  your  age,  but  you  do  not  talk  as 
boys  do.  You  are  a  man — then  be  a 
man  altogether,  be  independent — use 
your  hands  for  something  better  than 
throwing  mud  at  other  people's  houses 
merely  because  they  are  new  ! " 

Orsino  looked  at  her  in  astonish- 
ment. This  was  certainly  not  the  sort 
of  conversation  he  had  anticipated 
when  he  had  entered  the  room. 

"  You  are  surprised  because  I  speak 
like  this,"  she  said  after  a  short  pause. 
"  You  are  a  Saracinesca  and  I  am — a 
stranger,  here  to-day  and  gone  to- 
morrow, whom  you  will  probably  never 
see  again.  It  is  amusing,  is  it  not? 
Why  do  you  not  laugh  ?  " 

Maria  Consuelo  smiled  and  as  usual 
her  strong  red  lips  closed  as  soon  as  she 
had  finished  speaking,  a  habit  which 
lent  the  smile  something  unusual,  half- 
mysterious,  and  self-contained. 


262 


Don  Ormw. 


"  I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  an- 
swered Orsino.  **  Did  the  mythological 
personage  whose  name  I  have  forgotten 
laugh  when  the  sphinx  proposed  the 
riddle  to  him  %  " 

"  That  is  the  third  time  within  the 
last  few  davs  that  I  have  been  com- 
pared  to  a  sphinx  by  you  or  Gouache. 
It  lacks  originality  in  the  end." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  being 
original.  I  was  too  much  interested. 
Your  riddle  is  the  problem  of  my  life.'' 
"  The  resemblance  ceases  there.  I 
cannot  eat  you  up  if  you  do  not  guess 
the  answer — or  if  you  do  not  take  my 
advice.  I  am  not  prepared  to  go  so 
far  as  that." 

"  Was  it  advice  ?  It  sounded  more 
like  a  question." 

"  I  would  not  ask  one  when  I  am 
sure  of  getting  no  answer.  Besides, 
I  do  not  like  being  laughed  at." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  the 
matter  1  Why  imagine  anything  so 
impossible  ? " 

**  After  all  —  perhaps  it  is  more 
foolish  to  say,  *  I  advise  you  to  do  so 
and  so,*  than  to  ask,  *  Why  do  you  not 
do  so  and  so  ? '  Advice  is  always  dis- 
agreeable and  the  adviser  is  always 
more  or  less  ridiculous.  Advice  brings 
its  own  punishment." 

"  Is  that  not  cynical  ? "  asked  Orsino. 
"  No.  Why  ]  What  is  the  worst 
thing  you  can  do  to  your  social  enemy  % 
Prevail  upon  him  to  give  you  his 
counsel,  act  upon  it  — it  will  of  course 
turn  out  badly — then  say,  '  I  feared 
this  would  happen,  but  as  you  ad\ased 

me    I  did  not  like '  and    so  on ! 

That  is  simple  and  always   effectual. 
Try  it." 

"Not  for  worlds!" 
'*  I  did  not  mean  with  me,"  answered 
Maria  Consuelo  with  a  laugh. 

"  No.  I  am  afraid  there  are  other 
reasons  which  will  prevent  me  from 
making  a  career  for  myself,"  said 
Orsino  thoughtfully. 

Maria  Consuelo  saw  by  his  face 
that  the  subject  was  a  serious  one 
with  him,  as  she  had  already  guessed 
that  it  must  be,  and  one  which  would 
always   interest   him.      She  therefore 


let  it  drop,   keeping  it  in  reserve  in 
case  the  conversation  flagged. 

•*  I  am  going  to    see  Madame   Del . 
Ferice     to-morrow,"     she     observed, 
changing  the  subject. 

"  Do  5  ou  think  that  is  necessary  ? " 
"  Since  I  wish  it  !     I  have  not  your 
reasons  for  avoiding  her." 

**  I  offended  you  the  other  day, 
madame,  did  I  not?  You  remember — 
when  I  offered  my  services  in  a  social 
way. 

"No — vou  amused  me,"  answered 
Maria  Consuelo  coolly,  and  watching 
to  see  how  he  would  take  the  rebuke. 

But,  young  as  Orsino  was,  he  was 
a  match  for  her  in  self-possession. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  he  answered 
without  a  trace  of  annoyance.  "  I 
feared  you  were  displeased." 

Maria  Consuelo  smiled  again,  and 
her  momentary  coldness  vanished. 
The  answer  delighted  her,  and  did 
more  to  interest  her  in  Orsino  than 
fifty  clever  sayings  could  have  done, 
she  resolved  to  push  the  question  a 
little  further. 

"  I  will  be  frank,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  always  best,"  answered 
Orsino,  beginning  to  suspect  that 
something  very  tortuous  was  coming. 
His  disbelief  in  phrases  of  the  kind, 
though  originally  artificial,  was  becom- 
ing profound. 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  quite  frank,"  she 
repeated.  "  You  do  not  wish  me  to 
know  the  Del  Ferice  and  their  set,  and 
you  do  wish  me  to  know  the  people 
you  like." 

*•  Evidently." 

"Why  should  I  not  do  as  I  please  1 " 
She   was  clearly   trying   to   entrap 
him  into  a  foolish  answer,  and  he  grew 
more  and  more  wary. 

"  It  would  be  very  strange  if  you 
did  not,"  answered  Orsino  without 
hesitation. 

"Why,  again  1" 

"  Because  you  are  absolutely  free  to 
make  your  own  choice." 

"And  if  my  choice  does  not  meet 
with  your  approval  ? "  she  asked. 

"  What  can  I  say,  madame  1  I  and 
my  friends  will  be  the  losers,  not  you." 


Don  Oo^sino, 


263 


Orsino  had  kept  his  temper  admir- 
ably,  and  he  did   not  suifer  a  hasty 
word  to  escape  his  lips  nor  a  shadow  of 
irritation  to  appear  in  his  face.     Yet 
she  had  pressed  him  in  a  way  which 
was    little  short  of    rude.     She    was 
silent  for  a  few  seconds,  during  which 
Orsino  watched  her  face  as  she  turned 
it  slightly  away  from  him  and  from 
the  lamp.     In  reality  he  was  wonder- 
ing why  she  was  not  more  communi- 
cative about  herself,  and  speculating 
as  to  whether  her  silence  in  that  quarter 
proceeded  from    the   consciousness  of 
a  perfectly  assured    position    in    the 
world,  or  from  the  fact  that  she  had 
something  to  conceal ;  and  this  idea 
led  him  to  congratulate  himself  upon 
not   having  been    obliged  to    act  im- 
mediately upon  his  first  proposal   by 
bringing   about   an   acquaintance   be- 
tween   Madame  d'Aranjuez   and    his 
mother.     This  uncertainty  lent  a  spice 
of  interest  to  the  acquaintance.     He 
knew  enough  of  the  world  already  to 
be  sure  that  Maria  Consuelo  was  born 
and  bred  in  that  state  of  life  to  which 
it  has  pleased  Providence  to  call   the 
social  elect.     But  the  peculiar  people 
sometimes  do  strange  things,  and  after- 
wards establish   themselves  in  foreign 
cities  where  their  doings  are  not  likely 
to  be  known  for  some  time.     Not  that 
Orsino    cared     what    this     particular 
stranger's  past  might  have  been.    But 
he   knew  that  his  mother  would  care 
very   much    indeed,  if  Orsino  wished 
her  to  know  the  mysterious  lady,  and 
would  sift  the  matter  very  thoroughly 
before    asking    her     to    the    Palazzo 
8aracinesca.       Donna   Tullia,   on   the 
other  hand,  had  committed  herself  to 
the  acquaintance  on  her  own  responsi- 
bility, evidently  taking  it  for  granted 
that  if  Orsino  knew  Madame  d' Aranj  uez, 
the  latter  must  be  socially  irreproach- 
able.    It    amused    Orsino  to  imagine 
the  fat  countess's  rage  if  she  turned 
out  to  have  make  a  mistake. 

*'  I  shall  be  the  loser  too,"  said 
Maria  Consuelo,  in  a  different  tone, 
"  if  1  make  a  bad  choice.  But  I  can- 
not draw  back.  I  took  her  to  her 
house  in  my  carriage.     She  seemed  to 


take  a  fancy  to  me- 
little. 


i> 


she  laughed  a 


Orsino  smiled,  as  though  to  imply 
that  the  circumstance  did  not  surprise 
him. 

''And  she  said  she  would  come 
to  see  me.  As  a  stranger  I  could 
not  do  less*than  insist  upon  making 
the  first  visit,  and  I  named  the  day 
— or  rather  she  did.  I  am  going  to- 
morrow." 

"  To-morrow  1  Tuesday  is  her  day. 
You  will  meet  all  her  friends." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  people 
still  have  days  in  RomeT'  Maria 
Consuelo  did  not  look  pleased. 

"  Some  people  do — very  few.  Most 
people  prefer  to  be  at  home  one  even- 
ing in  the  week." 

**What  sort  of  people  are  Madame 
Del  Fence's  friends  1 " 
"  Excellent  people." 
"  Why  are  you  so  cautious] " 
"  Because  you  are  about  to  be  one 
of  them,  madame." 

"Am  I?  No,  I  will  not  begin 
another  catechism  !  You  are  too 
clevier  — I  shall  never  get  a  direct  an- 
swer from  you." 

"  Not     in     that     way,"     answered 
Orsino  with  a  frankness  that  made  his 
companion  smile. 
"  How  then  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  would  know  how," 
he  replied  gravely,  and  he  fixed  his 
young  black  eyes  on  her  with  an  ex- 
pression that  made  her  half  close  her 
own. 

**  I  should  think  you  would  make  a 
good  actor,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Provided  that  I  might  be  allowed 
to  be  sincere  between  the  acts." 

"That  sounds  well.  A  little  am- 
biguous perhaps.  Your  sincerity 
might  or  might  not  take  the  same 
direction  as  the  part  you  had  been 
acting." 

**  That  would  depend  entirely  upon 
yourself,  madame." 

This  time  Maria  Consuelo  opened 
her  eyes  instead  of  closing  them.  \ 

"  You  do  not  lack — what  shall  I 
say  1 — a  certain  assurance.  You  do 
not  waste  time  !  " 


264 


Don  Orsi7W. 


She  laughed  merrily,  and  Orsino 
laughed  with  her. 

"  We  are  between  the  acts  now," 
he  said.  "  The  curtain  goes  up  to- 
morrow and  you  join  the  enemy.'* 

'*  Come  with  me,  then." 

"  In  your  carriage  1  I  shall  be  en- 
chanted." • 

"  No.  You  know  I  do  not  mean 
that.  Come  with  me  to  the  enemy's 
camp.     It  will  be  very  amusing." 

Orsino  shook  his  head. 

**  I  would  rather  die— if  possible,  at 
your  feet,  madame." 

"Are  you  afraid  to  call  upon 
Madame  Del  Ferice  1 " 

"More  than  of  death  itself." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  The  conditions  of  the  life  to  come 
are  doubtful — there  might  be  a  chance 
for  me.  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  as 
to  what  would  happen  if  I  went  to  see 
Madame  Del  Ferice." 

"  Is  your  father  so  severe  with 
you  1 "  asked  Maria  Consuelo  with  a 
little  scorn. 

"  Alas,  madame,  I  am  not  sensitive 
to  ridicule,"  answered  Orsino,  quite 
unmoved.  "  I  grant  that  there  is 
something  wanting  in  my  character." 

Maria  Consuelo  had  hoped  to  find  a 
weak  point,  and  had  failed,  though 
indeed  there  were  many  in  the  young 
man's  armour.  She  was  a  little  an- 
noyed, both  at  her  own  lack  of  judg- 
ment and  because  it  would  have 
amused  her  to  see  Orsino  in  an  element 
so  unfamiliar  to  him  as  that  in  which 
Donna  Tullia  lived. 

**  And  there  is  nothing  which  would 
induce  you  to  go  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

"At  present — nothing,"  Orsino  an- 
swered coldly. 

"  At  present — but  in  the  future  of 
all  possible  possibilities  ? " 

"  I  shall  undoubtedly  go  there.  It 
is  only  the  unforeseen  which  invari- 
ably happens." 

"  I  think  so  too." 

"Of  course.  I  will  illustrate  the 
proverb  by  bidding  you  good-evening," 
said  Orsino,  laughing  as  he  rose.  "  By 
this  time  the  conviction  must  have 
formed  itself  in  your  mind  that  I  was 


never  going.    The  unforeseen  happens. 

I  go." 

Maria  Consuelo  would  have  been 
glad  if  he  had  stayed  even  longer,  for 
he  amused  her  and  interested  her,  and 
she  did  not  look  forward  with  pleasure 
to  the  lonely  evening  she  was  to  spend 
in  the  hotel. 

"  I  am  generally  at  home  at  this 
hour,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand. 

"  Then,  if  you  will  allow  me  1 
Thanks.     Good-evening,  madame." 

Their  eyes  met  for  a  moment,  and 
then  Orsino  left  the  room.  As  he  lit 
his  cigarette  in  the  porch  of  the  hotel, 
he  said  to  himself  that  he  had  not 
wasted  his  hour,  and  he  was  pleasantly 
conscious  of  that  inward  and  spiritual 
satisfaction  which  every  very  young 
man  feels  when  he  is  aware  of  having 
appeared  at  his  best  in  the  society  of 
a  woman  alone.  Youth  without  vanity 
is  only  premature  old  age  after  all. 

"  She  is  certainly  more  than  pretty," 
he  said  to  himself,  affecting  to  be 
critical  when  he  was  indeed  convinced. 
"  Her  mouth  is  fabulous,  but  it  is  well 
shaped  and  the  rest  is  perfect — no,  the 
nose  is  insignificant,  and  one  of  those 
yellow  eyes  wanders  a  little.  These 
are  not  perfections.  But  what  does  it 
matter  ]  The  whole  is  charming,  what- 
ever the  parts  may  be.  I  wish  she 
would  not  go  to  that  horrible  fat 
woman's  tea  to-morrow." 

Such  were  the  observations  which 
Orsino  thought  fit  to  make  to  himself , 
but  which  by  no  means  represented  all 
that  he  felt,  for  they  took  no  notice 
whatever  of  that  extreme  satisfaction 
at  having  talked  well  with  Maria 
Consuelo,  which  in  reality  dominated 
every  other  sensation  just  then.  He 
was  well  enough  accustomed  to  con- 
sideration, though  his  only  taste  of 
society  had  been  enjoyed  during  the 
winter  vacations  of  the  last  two  years. 
He  was  not  the  greatest  match  in  the 
Roman  matrimonial  market  for  no- 
thing, and  he  was  perfectly  well  aware 
of  his  advantages  in  this  respect.  He 
possessed  that  keen,  business-like  ap- 
preciation of  his  value  as  a  mai'riage- 
able  man  which  seems  to  characterise 


Don  Orsino. 


265 


the  young  generation  of  to-day,  and 
he  was  not  mistaken  in  his  estimate. 
It  was  made  suflSciently  clear  to  him 
at  every  turn  that  he  had  but  to  ask 
in  order  to  receive.  But  he  had  not 
the  slightest  intention  of  marrying  at 
one-and-twenty  as  several  of  his  old 
schoolfellows  were  doing,  and  he  was 
sensible  enough  to  foresee  that  his 
position  as  a  desirable  son-in-law  would 
soon  cause  him  more  annoyance  than 
amusement. 

Madame  d'Aranjuez  was  doubtless 
aware  that  she  could  not  marry  him 
if  she  wished  to  do  so.  She  was 
several  years  older  than  he — he  ad- 
mitted the  fact  rather  reluctantly — 
she  was  a  widow,  and  she  seemed  to 
have  no  particular  social  position. 
These  were  excellent  reasons  against 
matrimony,  but  they  were  also  equally 
excellent  reasons  for  being  pleased 
with  himself  at  having  produced  a 
favourable  impression  on  her. 

He  walked  rapidly  along  the  crowded 
street,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  people 
who  passed  and  at  the  brilliantly 
lighted  windows  of  the  shops.  He 
passed  the  door  of  the  club,  where  he 
was  already  becoming  known  for  rather 
reckless  play,  and  he  quite  forgot  that 
a  number  of  men  were  probably  spend- 
ing an  hour  at  the  tables  before  dinner, 
a  fact  which  would  hardly  have  escaped 
his  memory  if  he  had  not  been  more 
than  usually  occupied  with  pleasant 
thoughts.  He  did  not  need  the  excite- 
ment of  baccarat  nor  the  stimulus  of 
brandy  and  soda-water,  for  his  brain 


was  already  both  excited  and  stimu- 
lated, though  he  was  not  at  once  aware 
of  it.  But  it  became  olear  to  him  when 
he  suddenly  found  himself  standing 
before  the  steps  of  the  Capitol  in  the 
gloomy  square  of  the  Ara  Coeli,  won- 
dering what  in  the  world  had  brought 
him  so  far  out  of  his  way. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am  !  *'  he  exclaimed 
impatiently,  as  he  turned  back  and 
walked  in  the  direction  of  his  home. 
"And  yet  she  told  me  that  I  would 
make  a  good  actor.  They  say  that  an 
actor  should  never  be  carried  away  by 
his  part." 

At  dinner  that  evening  he  was 
alternately  talkative  and  very  silent. 

"  Where  have  you  been  to-day, 
Orsino?*'  asked  his  father,  looking  at 
him  curiously. 

"  I  spent  half  an  hour  with  Madame 
d'Aranjuez,  and  then  went  for  a  walk," 
answered  Orsino  with  sudden  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  What  is  she  like  1 "  asked  Corona. 

"  Clever — at  least  in  Rome."  There 
was  an  odd,  nervous  sharpness  about 
the  answer. 

Old  Saracinesca  raised  his  keen  eyes 
without  lifting  his  head  and  looked 
hard  at  his  grandson.  He  was  a  little 
bent  in  his  great  old  age. 

"The  boy  is  in  love  !  "  he  exclaimed 
abruptly,  and  a  laugh  that  was  still 
deep  and  ringing  followed  the  words. 
Orsino  recovered  his  self-possession 
and  smiled  carelessly. 

Corona  was  thoughtful  during  the 
remainder  of  the  meal. 


(To  he  contiv/aed.) 


26(> 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  AND  THE  TRUE. 


The  apostles  of  University  Extension 
are  conscious,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
that  there  are  some  things  to  be  said 
against  their  mission,  and  that  there 
are  some  people  who  say  them.  It  is  not 
now  my  purpose  to  repeat  these  things. 
For  the  present,  ignoring  both  that 
which  is  plainly  mischievous  and  that 
which  may  only  tend  to  breed  mischief, 
I  wish  to  cordially  acknowledge  what- 
ever is  good  in  a  scheme  for  which  its 
staunchest  supporters  will  hardly  as 
yet  claim  perfection.  Let  it  be  cheer 
fully  granted  then  that  a  little  know- 
ledge is  not  always  and  inevitably  a 
dangerous  thing.  Let  it  be  granted 
that  it  is  better  to  know  something 
even  at  second  hand  of  the  great  men 
on  whose  shoulders  we  have  climbed 
to  our  present  position,  than  to  proceed 
"  in  facetious  and  rejoicing  ignorance  " 
of  who  they  were,  when  they  lived,  and 
what  they  did.  It  is  at  least  well  to 
impress  on  the  rising  generation  that 
there  have  been  poets  before  Lord 
Tennyson  and  prose-writers  before  Mr. 
Ruskin,  painters  before  Mr.  Sargent 
and  playwrights  before  Mr.  Pinero  ; 
that  fiction  did  not  begin  with  Mr. 
George  Meredith,  nor  criticism  with 
Mr.  Pater ;  that  the  foundations  of 
philosophy  were  not  laid  by  the  author 
of  First  Frinciplea,  nor  the  foundations 
of  theology  by  the  authors  of  Lux 
Mundi.  In  short,  all  teaching  may 
be  fruitful  which  tends  to  convey  the 
great  truth  that  the  words  Let  there 
he  Light  were  spoken  before  the  latter 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Let  this  much,  then,  be  granted. 
Nor  need  those  who  grant  it  abandon 
their  original  position,  that  to  know  a 
few  things  well  is  better  for  man,  in 
whatsoever  rank  of  life  he  be  born,  for 
whatsoever  work  in  life  he  may  be 
bred,  than  to  know  many  things  ill. 
But   art    is    long,   time  is  short,   the 


desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star  is  press- 
ing. If  we  cannot  do  the  thing  that 
we  would,  let  us  do,  so  well  as  may  be, 
the  thing  that  we  can.  The  Duke  of 
Wellington,  honest  man,  did  not  ap- 
prove of  the  Reform  Bill ;  but  he  pre- 
ferred even  the  Reform  Bill  to  Civil 
War. 

Among  the  gentlemen  who  at  the 
close  of  last  year  waited  on  the 
President  of  the  Privy  Council  to 
bespeak  the  aid  of  Government  for 
University  Extension  were  some  over 
whom  the  Plain  Man  may  possibly 
shake  his  head.  Their  names  will 
hardly  suggest  to  him  the  virtues  of 
prudence,  moderation,  sanity,  all  that 
the  wise  Greek  comprehended  in  the 
word  (ro}<l>poa'vvq — virtues  so  excellent 
in  themselves,  so  preeminently  needful 
for  all  entrusted  with  the  training  of 
the  young  idea.  But  among  them  was 
one  to  whom  all  must  listen  with  respect. 
There  is  no  man  living  better  qualified 
than  Mr.  Jebb  to  form  and  express  an 
opinion  on  all  matters  of  education  and 
learning.  He  made  the  best  case  pos- 
sible for  his  colleagues.  The  scheme, 
it  is  known,  works  mainly,  or  at 
least  largely,  by  means  of  local  lec- 
tures, which  are  said  to  penetrate  into 
districts  where  the  schools  and  colleges 
now  supported  by  Government  can- 
not reach ;  and  it  was  for  these  lec- 
tures that  the  State-grant  was  asked. 
The  encouragement  recently  given  by 
Government  to  scientiBc  studies  had, 
it  was  averred,  reacted  somewhat 
harmfully  upon  history  and  literature. 
If  the  great  impetus  given  to  science 
should  throw  history  and  literature 
into  the  background  the  primary  object 
of  these  lectures  would  be  defeated. 
That  object,  said  Mr.  Jebb,  was  not  to 
train  skilled  artisans  or  specialists  in 
any  branch  of  knowledge,  but  to  raise 
the  whole  education  of  the  citizen,  to 


The  Beautiful  and  the   True. 


267 


enlarge  his  mental  horizon,  to  draw 
out  his  powers  of  thought  and  imagi- 
nation, to  render  his  patriotism  more 
intelligent,  and  his  conception  of  life 
more  fruitful.  For  that  purpose  the 
study  of  history  and  literature  sup- 
plied elements  for  which  no  satisfactory 
substitute  could  be  found.  This  is 
kindly  meant  and  well  expressed.  It 
may  indeed  be  that  its  wisdom  is  less 
certain  than  its  kindliness.  There  are 
citizens  in  this  great  State  to  whom 
this  enlarging  and  fructifying  process 
might  not  be  much  more  useful  than 
the  pair  of  lace  ruffles  were  to  the  un- 
fortunate who  wanted  a  shirt.  But 
doubtless  it  is  not  proposed  to  draw 
them  all  into  the  same  net ;  and  with 
the  design  itself,  apart  from  its  appli- 
cation, no  fault  can  be  found.  What 
a  masterstroke  of  policy  too  is  that, 
to  o'ender  his  patriotism  more  intelli- 
gent !  What  Conservative  Government 
could  look  coldly  on  a  scheme  that  is 
bound  to  make  every  citizen  a  Conser- 
vative ?  To  be  sure  Lord  Cranbrook 
was  forced  to  explain  that  he  could 
make  no  promises,  and  that  in  fact 
neither  the  power  of  giving  nor  of 
withholding  aid  was  in  his  hands.  The 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  was,  he 
intimated,  the  proper  person  to  apply 
to ;  and  that  functionary,  though  he 
happens  in  the  present  instance  to  be 
one  who  would  never  discourage  any 
plan  for  genuine  education,  has  not 
unlimited  funds  at  his  disposal.  Lord 
Cranbrook's  attitude  was  in  short 
much  like  that  of  the  statesman  in  the 
Enchanted  Palace  who  "  smiling  put 
the  question  by."  Perhaps  the  depu- 
tation did  not  expect  much  else.  There 
was  a  certain  vagueness  about  their 
proposals  which  suggested  rather  a 
general  wish  that  something  might  be 
done,  than  a  definite  plan  of  anything 
that  could  be  done.  But  that  the  de- 
putation thought  it  worth  their  while 
to  address  the  Government  on  the  sub- 
ject at  all,  and  the  general  tenor  of  the 
answer  they  received,  help  to  set  the 
scheme  on  a  sounder  base  than  it  has 
yet  perhaps  found  in  public  estimation, 
and  serve  to  raise  it  out  of  the  region 


of  Hi  ere  experiment  into  a  more  prac- 
tical sphere  It  becomes  its  promoters 
therefore  to  look  more  warily  than 
ever  to  their  steps,  to  be  more  than 
ever  careful  that  the  place  they  claim 
in  the  universal  scheme  of  education 
should  be  grounded  on  right  reason, 
that  it  should  really  work  to  those  use- 
ful ends  which  Mr  Jebb  has  defined 
for  it. 

It  appears  from  Lord  Cranbrook's 
answer  that  he  had  prepared  himself  to 
receive  the  deputation  by  the  perusal 
of  >undry  books  which  they  had  caused 
to  be  sent  to  him  beforehand.  The 
University  Extension  Movement  has 
quite  a  little  library  of  its  own  now,  as 
everyone  knows.  I  wonder  whether 
among  the  books  selected  for  his  lord- 
ship's information  was  one  on  The 
Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful,  prepared 
by  Professor  Knight  of  St.  Andrew's 
University,  and  lately  published  by 
Mr.  Murray,  if  his  lordship  read  it,  and 
whether  he  considered  it  to  come  under 
the  head  of  the  "  kind  of  instruction 
which  everybody  agrees  is  most  valu- 
able and  has  been  most  valuable 
throughout  the  country."  Lord  Cran- 
brook saw  and  confessed  a  difficulty 
in  the  gap  between  the  little  students 
swept  in  by  the  Government  net  of 
elementary  education  and  those  of  a 
larger  growth  to  whom  the  University 
Extension  lectures  appeal ;  the  former 
range  from  four  to  thirteen  years,  the 
latter  from  seventeen  years  onward. 
*'  You  have,"  said  he,  "  an  enormous 
gap  to  fill  up,  and  at  present  I  can 
hardly  imagine  that  your  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  Extension  scheme  touches 
anything  more  than  the  mere  skirt  of 
those  who  are  to  be  brought  in  from 
the  mere  elementary  schools.  Your 
students  must  be  those  who  have  had 
some  kind  of  education,  of  a  different 
kind  and  beyond  that  given  in  the  ele- 
mentary school,  in  order  that  they  may 
be  in  a  condition  to  profit  l)y  the  sort 
of  instruction  which  you  give."  Did 
the  instruction  given  in  Tlie  Philosophy 
of  the  Beautiful  strike  his  lordship,  I 
wonder,  as  the  sort  by  which  these 
students  were  likely  to  profit  1 


268 


The  Beautiful  and  the  Tome. 


The  little  volume  grew  out  of  a 
course  of  lectures  delivered  first  to  the 
Philosophical  Institution  of  Edinburgh, 
and  afterwards  to  audiences  of  Uni- 
versity Extension  students  in  London 
and  Cheltenham.  They  were  origin- 
ally preceded  by  an  attempt  at  a  con- 
structive theory  of  the  Philosophy  of 
Beauty.  But  this  Professor  Knight 
has  deemed  it  expedient  to  omit — very 
wisely,  as  I  venture  to  think — and  has 
preferred  to  confine  himself  in  the 
main  to  a  historical  sketch  of  past 
opinion  and  tendency.  He  has  shown 
in  his  preface  many  good  reasons  for 
his  judgment ;  one  being — for  the  Pro- 
fessor is  nothing  if  not  candid — that 
many  people,  "  philosophers  of  renown" 
and  by  no  means  inappreciative  of 
beauty,  deny  that  "any  satisfactory 
conclusion  can  be  reached  in  the  field 
of  aesthetics",  think,  to  put  it  fami- 
liarly, that  this  way  mystification,  if 
not  madness,  lies.  "  They  point  to 
the  discord  of  the  schools,  their  rival 
theories,  the  vagueness  of  argument — 
a  maximum  of  debate  with  a  minimum 
of  result  They  remind  us  how  it  was 
the  ambition  of  every  aspirant  in 
philosophy,  in  his  undergraduate  days, 
to  solve  the  problem  of  the  Beautiful ; 
and  they  say,  with  the  astronomer- 
poet  of  Persia,  Omar  Khayyam — 

Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argu- 
ment 

About  it  and  about ;  but  evermore 
Came  out,  by  the  same  door,  where  in  I 
went." 

There  is  much  to  be  said  for  this  sort 
of  philosophers.  On  many  sides  the 
world  might  be  both  a  happier  and 
a  wiser  place  if  more  of  its  inhabit- 
ants were  content  "  to  theorize  no 
longer,  to  give  up  the  philosophic 
quest,  and  return  to  the  earlier 
state  of  mere  recipiency  and  enjoy- 
ment." Professor  Knight  admits  the 
problem  to  be  perennial ;  there  is  no 
final  goal.  "We  at  present  stand 
upon  a  small  (occasionally  sunlit)  pro- 
montory, stretching  out  from  the  land 
of  primal  mystery  whence  we  came, 
into  the  ocean  of  a  still  vaster  ignor- 


ance,  over  which  we  must  set   out." 
Nevertheless  to  record  all  the  theoretic 
guesses,  conjectures,  and  approximate 
solutions  is  valuable,  not  only  because 
they  form  links  in  a  chain  that  shall 
never  be  completed,  but  because  they 
are  also  "  the  progressive  unfolding  of 
the  Universal  Reason,  which  immea- 
surably transcends  that  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  is  nevertheless  its  deepest 
essence."  And  it  has  yet  another  value j 
which  may  perhaps  be  more  generally 
intelligible   to  the  individual  reason, 
and  which   mine   at   least  does    most 
cordially    accept :    "  Accurate    know- 
ledge of  previous  speculation  is  always 
our  best  guide  to  the  study  of  a  problem 
that  is  perennial ;  and  while  the  history 
of  Philosophy  shows  that  the  most  per- 
fect theory  is  doomed  to  oblivion  no  less 
certainly  than  the  imperfect  ones,  and 
that  they  all  revive  after  temporary 
extinction,  we  can  contribute  nothing  of 
value  to  the  controversies  of  our  time  hy 
striving  after   an   originality  tliat  dis- 
jjenses  with  the  past^  If  not  absolutely- 
beautiful  the  passage  here  italicised  is 
most  certainly  true  and  good  ;  it  might, 
let  me  observe  in  passing,  be  recom- 
mended to    the  attention    of    certain 
members  of  the  New  English  Art  Club ; 
and  the  right  study  of  the  Beautiful  we 
are   wisely   (and  assuredly   not  super- 
fluously) reminded,  must  inevitably  lead 
to  the  Good  and  True.    The  Professor 
claims  for  it  that  it  is  likely  to  prove, 
that  in  fact  it  has  been  found  to  prove, 
a  corrective  to  cynicism,  and  he  quotes 
the  words  put  by  Matthew  Arnold  in 
Goethe's  mouth  : 

The  end  is  everywhere. 
Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there  ! 

It  is  obvious  [he  says]  that  the  study 
cannot  be  either  begun  or  carried  on  in 
the  nil  admlrari  mood  of  the  cynic.  Even 
when  the  search  for  "  first  principles"  has 
been  abandoned,  metaphysics  given  up. 
and  the  "  categorical  imperative  "  deemed 
baselesp,  a  reliable  footing  has  been  found 
in  the  sphere  of  the  Beautiful,  whence  a 
way  may  be  discovered  leading  back  into 
that  of  the  True  and  the  Good.  Certainly 
some  have  found  it  possible,  after  the  dis- 
integration of  belief  in  the  intellectual  and 
moral  sphere,  to  resist  further  loss  by  hold- 


The  Beautiful  and  the  True, 


269 


ing  fast  to  what  can  be  proved  within  the 
sphere  of  Art ;  and  they  have  afterwards 
found  some  help  in  the  solution  of  other 
problems  by  means  of  it.  The  light  which 
it  casts  on  the  central  enquiry  of  Theism, 
I  hope  to  show  in  my  second  volume. 

May  it  be  permitted  to  hope  that  the 
forthcoming  volume  will  not  be  in- 
cluded in  the  University  Extension 
Library  ]  Most  curious  and  interest- 
ing it  cannot  fail  to  be ;  but  the  con- 
nection between  Theism  and  the 
Beautiful  wull  surely  puzzle  and  hardly 
profit  the  budding  student  of  seven- 
teen. However,  no  one,  whether  seven- 
teen or  seventy,  will  dispute  that  it  is 
better  to  believe  even  in  a  Philosophy 
of  the  Beautiful  than  to  believe  in 
nothing  ;  and  this  I  take  to  be  the 
Professor's  meaning. 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  problem 
which  perplexes  me  more  than  all  the 
theories  of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Beau- 
tiful that  have  vexed  the  unquiet  soul 
of  man  since  Socrates  imjarted  to 
Agathon's  guests  the  doctrines  of  the 
wise  Diotima.  For  what  particular 
class  of  students  is  this  little  book 
designed  ;  of  what  age  will  they  be, 
of  what  training,  of  what  sex  almost 
I  would  ask  1  That  no  students  will 
be  under  the  age  of  seventeen  may 
be  gathered  from  Lord  Cranbrook's 
speech ;  and  though  no  further  limit 
is  assigned  therein — and  none  probably 
is  contemplated,  for  who  is  too  old  to 
learn? — it  may  reasonably  be  assumed 
that  a  general  census  of  the  lecture- 
rooms  would  show  a  strong  prepon- 
derance of  the  young.  A  large  pro- 
portion, perhaps  the  majority,  will 
doubtless  be  girls,  who — I  speak  not 
disrespectfully  of  lecturers  or  pupils — 
have  no  more  pressing  occupation  for 
their  happy  idleness.  But  even  among 
the  more  serious  class  of  students  the 
young  nuist  surely  preponderate.  TJie 
ambition  and  the  energy  of  youth  are 
needed  to  add  the  pursuit  of  culture 
to  the  daily  struggle  for  existence ; 
and  the  students  whom  this  scheme 
aims  at  attracting  will  clearly  be  those 
to  whom  the  first  needs  of  existence 
do  not  come  unlocked  for. 


It  is  a  question,  T  cannot  but  think, 
whether  the  study  of  the  Philosophy 
of  the  Beautiful  will  materially  assist 
the  objects  of  the  movement  as  defined 
by  Mr.  Jebb.     Heretics  there  are  in- 
deed  who  venture  to  doubt  whether 
the  study  of  Philosophy,  as  practised 
in  the  Schools  of  Oxford,  is  of  much 
value  to  any  class  of  mind,  or  that 
the  human  intelligence  at  any  stage  of 
its    progress    is    materially    benefited 
by,  let   us   say,  a   knowledge   of  the 
"  Amphiboly  of  the  conceptions  of  the 
Reflection "  ;    whether     it     does     not 
rather  suggest  the  notion  of   angels, 
ineffectual    if    not    beautiful,    vainly 
beating  in  the  void  no  luminous  wings. 
There  have  even  been  men,   not  un- 
learned   nor   unintelligent,    who    held 
that  the  philosophical  is  not  the  most 
precious    part    of    the    heritage    be- 
queathed by  Plato  to  the  human  race. 
But  these  are  extreme  opinions  which 
I    am   concerned  neither  to  maintain 
nor  to  refute.     It  is  at  least  no  ex- 
treme opinion  to  hold  that  the  study 
of  Philosophy  is  not  one  to  be  lightly 
taken  up,   either  as   the  elegant  dis- 
traction of  an  idle  hour  enjoyed  alter- 
nately  with   dissertations    upon   Pre- 
Raphaelite  painters  or  Victorian  poets, 
or  as  a  pleasant  relief  from  the  dry 
toil  of  the  counting-house  or  the  fac- 
tory.    In  one  of  his  essays  on  MilFs 
theory  of  Government,  Macaulay  com- 
ments  on   a  sort   of   teaching   which 
takes  uneducated  or  ill-educated  per- 
sons,  "  puts  five  or  six  phrases  into 
their  mouths,  lends  them  an  odd  num- 
ber of  the  Westminster  Review,  and 
in   a    month     transforms    them    into 
philosophers."     The  recipe  is  not  yet 
out  of  date,  though  the  Review  may 
be.     But  these  cannot  be  the  teachers, 
nor  these  the  pupils  whom  Mr.  Jebb 
had  in  his  mind  when  he  pleaded  the 
cause  of  University  Extension  before 
Lord  Cranbrook. 

Yet  it  is  hard  to  avoid  an  uneasy- 
suspicion  that  some  such  result  may 
follow  from  its  pious  labours,  if  this 
treatise  on  the  Philosophy  of  the 
Beautiful  may  be  taken  as  represent- 
ing its  general  scope  and  method.     I 


270. 


The  Beautiful  and  the  True. 


say  not  a  word  against  the  execution 
of  the  book.  What  its  composer  de- 
signed to  do,  he  has  done  as  compre- 
hensively as  the  nature  of  his  subject 
and  the  limitations  of  his  space  al- 
lowed him.  If  he  has  not  exactly  at- 
tained to  the  praise  given  to  the  learned 
and  judicious  Kichard  Hooker,  who 
"  had  a  most  blessed  and  clear  method 
of  demonstrating  what  he  knew  to 
the  great  advantage  of  all  his  pupils," 
we  must  remember  that  the  fruits  of 
more  than  two  thousand  years*  specu- 
lation are  not  easily  to  be  garnered  in 
a  little  volume  of  some  three  hundred 
pages.  My  doubt  is  rather  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  design.  Aristotle  con- 
fessed to  a  difficulty  in  determining 
how  far  it  would  profit  a  weaver  or  a 
carpenter  in  the  exercise  of  his  art  to 
contemplate  the  ideal  good ;  and, 
though  of  course  the  explanation  may 
be  forthcoming,  no  man  need  be 
ashamed  to  share  the  doubts  of  Aris- 
totle. Will  it,  for  instance,  enlarge 
the  mental  horizon  of  the  budding 
provincial  Miss  to  hear  that  "  the 
voice  of  beauty  comes  not  to  the  soul 
in  the  form  of  a  categorical  impera- 
tive "  ?  Will  it  render  the  young 
carpenter's  conception  of  life  more 
fruitful,  or  the  young  weaver's 
patriotism  more  intelligent,  to  read 
that  "  the  sublime  dynamic  creates 
the  beautiful,  the  sublime  mathematic 
contains  it "  1  What  man  or  woman, 
young  or  old,  in  any  class  of  life,  at 
any  period  of  their  mental  develop- 
ment, will  be  profited  one  jot  or  tittle 
by  the  information  that  when  they 
look  at  a  picture,  or  listen  to  a  piece  of 
music,  they  are  only  exercising  the 
aesthetic  impulse,  and  that  the  aesthetic 
impulse  is  only  **the  subjective  con- 
comitant of  the  normal  amount  of 
activity,  not  directly  connected  with 
life-serving  function,  in  the  peripheral 
end-organs  of  the  cerebro-spinal  ner- 
vous system  ?  *'  Is  this  the  Philosophy 
that  Milton  found  divine  and  charm- 
ing and  musical  as  Apollo's  lute  ] 
Can  a  perpetual  feast  of  such  sweets 
be  good  for  any  human  digestion  % 
If  ever  there  were  an  illustration  of 


the  cloud  of  words  which  darkens 
the  face  of  learning  it  is  surely  here. 
I  do  not  wish  to  exaggerate,  and 
I  may  be  wrong  ;  but  I  do  most 
strongly  hold  to  the  opinion  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  compose  in 
the  English  language  a  sentence  more 
absolutely  unintelligible  to  the  Plain 
Man  than  this.  Its  composer  possi- 
bly knew  what  he  meant  when  he 
penned  it,  and  Professor  Knight  of 
course  knew  when  he  transcribed  it. 
But  will  either  of  them  care  to  quote 
it  as  a  sample  of  that  "  combination 
of  scientific  treatment  with  popu- 
larity "  and  of  "  simplicity  with 
thoroughness  "  to  which  the  "  remark- 
able success  which  has  attended  Uni- 
versity Extension  in  Britain  "  is 
ascribed  1  This,  it  should  be  said,  is 
Mr.  Grant  Allen's  contribution  to  the 
Philosophy  of  the  Beautiful.  Mr. 
Allen  is  a  novelist,  and  as  he  has 
lately  won  the  prize  of  a  thousand 
pounds  offered  for  the  best  novel 
by  the  proprietors  of  a  weekly  journal 
known  as  Tit-Bits  (which  might 
itself  by  the  title  be  some  Univer- 
sity Extension  Manual)  he  must  be 
called  a  successful  one.  The  Beautiful 
should  be  a  complement  of  all  good 
fiction  ;  but  if  Mr.  Allen  carries  his 
theory  of  the  Beautiful  into  the  com- 
position of  his  novels,  they  must  be 
very  remarkable  works.  In  a  chain 
which  stretches  from  Plato  to  Mr. 
Grant  Allen  there  will  be  many 
links.  The  conjunction  of  the  two 
names,  with  all  the  host  that  inter- 
vene, is  ample  proof  of  the  judicial 
and  catholic  spirit  in  which  Professor 
Knight  has  approached  his  subject. 
He  advocates  no  theory,  but  examines 
all.  He  sums  up  the  evidence  of  two 
thousand  years,  and  presents  it  to  the 
jury — but  to  a  jury  of  whom  ? 

By  quoting  passages  detached  from 
their  context  any  form  of  human 
wisdom  can,  it  may  be  said,  be  made 
to  look  foolish.  The  passages  I  have 
quoted  have  been  taken  as  I  found 
them,  as  the  reader  of  this  treatise 
will  have  to  take  them.  Its  very 
form  necessitates  the  detachment  of 


The  Beautiful  and  the  True, 


271 


passages  from  their  context.  To  stu- 
dents of  Philosophy  who  can  them- 
selves supply  the  context  this  will  be 
no  hardship.  But  to  the  others — the 
blank  sheets  of  paper,  whom  this 
Manual  is  intended  to  prepare  for  the 
study  of  Philosophy,  whom  it  is  in- 
tended "to  educate  rather  than  to 
inform," — how  will  it  be  with  them  \ 
However,  to  avoid  any  suspicion  of  un- 
fair dealing,  I  will  take  another  passage, 
in  which  a  complete  theory  of  the  Beau- 
tiful is  presented  to  the  young  reader. 

Hartmann's  theory  of  aesthetic  beauty  is 
expressed  in  the  word  ScJiein  to  which  he 
gives  a  peculiar  meaning.  The  aesthetic 
"  shine  "  is  not  either  in  outward  objects 
(landscape,  air- vibrations,  &c.)  or  in  the 
mind.  It  is  occasioned  by  outward  objects, 
made  by  artists  or  otherwise,  and  is  cap- 
able of  summoning  the  "  shine  "  before  the 
mind  of  all  normally  constituted  people. 
He  talks  of  eye-shine,  ear  shine,  imagina- 
tion-shine [and  moon-shine  ?]  and  in  this 
shine  only  is  beauty  present.  The  sub- 
jective phenomenon  alone  is  beautiful.  No 
external  reality  is  essential  to  it,  provided 
only  this  aesthetic  shine  is  set  up  by  what- 
ever means.  In  natural  beauty  however 
the  shine  cannot  be  dissevered  from  the 
reality.  A  painter  sees  the  shine  at  once, 
as  something  different  from  the  real  objects ; 
so  may  we,  if,  for  example,  we  look  at  a 
landscape  with  inverted  head  !  This  plan, 
however,  does  not  answer  in  a  room.  It 
is  only  the  subjective  phenomenon,  how- 
ever, absolved  from  reality,  that  makes  an 
aesthetic  relation  possible. 

The  shine  does  not  pretend  to  be  true  in 
any  sense.  We  nmst  avoid  the  expression 
"phenomenon,"  "appearance"  in  connec- 
tion with  it,  as  this  suggests  objective  reality, 
which  is  quite  irrelevant.  The  shine  is 
not  a  mental  perception,  it  does  not  deal 
with  an  idea,  *'  the  idea  of  the  beautiful "  ; 
and  no  supersensuous  idea  of  the  beautiful 
is  at  all  necessary.  In  fact  the  pretensions 
of  transcendental  aesthetic  have  brought 
the  study  into  disrepute.  Shine  is  not  the 
same  as  a  picture,  unless  picture  be  taken 
in  a  psychical  or  intellectual  sense  ;  other- 
wise a  picture  is  a  real  thing  while  shine  is 
not.  It  is  also  to  be  distinguished  from  form. 

As  a  picture  stands  to  the  thing  pictured, 
a  form  stands  to  substance,  so  does  aesthetic 
shine  stand  to  the  subject.  The  subject 
disappears  before  it ;  not  only  do  the  in- 
terests of  self  disappear,  but  the  very  ego 
itself.     The  subject  disappears  from  the 


subjective  side  of  consciousness,  and  it 
emerges  again  on  the  objective  side.  The 
aesthetic  shine  is  thus  a  disintegration  of 
the  ego,  yet  it  is  not  an  illusion.  It  is  a 
reality  of  consciousness.  Beauty  reveals 
itself  to  us  in  a  series  of  steps,  but  at 
the  last  it  remains  a  mystery,  and  without 
mystery  there  would  be  no  beauty. 

Matthew  Arnold,  combating  the 
harm  done  to  Wordsworth* s  fame  by 
certain  indiscreet  disciples  who  per- 
sisted in  praising  the  master's  work 
for  its  worst  qualities — that  is,  not  for 
its  poetry,  which  is  the  reality,  but  for 
its  philosophy,  which  is  the  illusion — 
quotes  some  dreadful  lines  prized  by 
the  devout  Wordsworthian  for  the 
scientific  system  of  thought  contained 
in  them  : — 

0  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time 
When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her.  noblest 

wealtn 
And  best  protection,  this  Imperial  Realm, 
While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation  on  her  part  to  teach 
Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey  ; 
Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure, 
For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  main- 
tains, 
The  rudiments  of  letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth. 

"  One  can  hear  them,"  he  cries,  **  being 
quoted  at  a  Social  Science  Congress ; 
one  can  call  up  the  whole  scene.  A 
great  room  in  one  of  our  dismal  pro- 
vincial towns  ;  dusty  air  and  jaded 
afternoon  daylight;  benches  full  of 
men  with  bald  heads  and  women  in 
spectacles  ;  an  orator  lifting  up  his 
face  from  a  manuscript  written  within 
and  without  to  declaim  these  lines  of 
Wordsworth ;  and  in  the  soul  of  any 
poor  child  of  Nature  who  may  have 
wandered  in  thither,  an  unutterable 
sense  of  lamentation,  and  mourning, 
and  woe  ! "  After  reading  this  theory 
of  the  Beautiful,  with  all  its  wondrous 
talk  about  the  cestfietic  shine  and  the 
disintegration  qf  the  ego,  one  cannot 
help  suspecting  that  there  might  be 
moments  when  a  poor  child  of  Nature 
might  feel  almost  as  much  out  of  place 
at  a  University  Extension  Lecture  as 
at  a  Social  Science  Congress. 

Let  me  say  it   again,  my  quarrel, 


272 


The  Beautiful  and  the  Tnce. 


or,  for  that  is  a  harsh  word,  my  doubt, 
is  not  of  the  wisdom  of  the  book,  but  of 
the  wisdom  of  offering  it  to  minds 
that  cannot  in  the  nature  of  things  be 
more  than  half  trained,  and  whose 
training,  such  as  it  is,  cannot  surely 
have  prepared  them  as  yet  to  derive 
from  these  beautiful  peradventures  the 
profit  that  doubtless  lurks  in  their 
mystic  sentences  for  more  matured 
intellects.  Of  course  all  the  teaching 
in  this  little  volume  is  not  of  a  piece 
with  that  I  have  exhibited.  Occa- 
sionally one  comes  upon  a  piece  of 
plain  common  sense  that  to  the  poor 
child  of  Nature  at  least  is  as  grateful 
as  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land.  How  refreshing,  after 
running  one's  head  against  the  "  peri- 
pheral end-organs  "  of  Mr.  Allen,  or 
standing  on  one's  head  to  catch  the 
"  aesthetic  shine  "  of  the  worthy 
Hartmann  (a  mode  of  philosophic 
research  which,  as  Professor  Knight 
justly  warns  his  pupils,  it  were  un- 
advisable  to  practise  in  a  picture- 
gallery) — how  refreshing,  I  say,  after 
these  facts  to  turn  to  Cicero's  simple 
definition  of  beauty  as  "  the  apt  con- 
figuration of  body,  with  a  certain  deli- 
cacy of  colour  superadded "  ;  or  to 
Mr.  Edward  Tylor's  candid  confession 
of  his  inability  to  tell  what  led  the 
primitive  man  to  think  a  feather  in 
the  nose  a  beautiful  appendage.  How 
wholesome  too  is  this,  perhaps  the 
most  fruitful  truth  in  the  book  to  be 
impressed  on  the  minds  of  the  rising 
generation : 

No  nation  has  ever  been  at  the  time 
aware  of  its  own  artistic  decline.  Nay,  its 
critics  and  art- workers  have  even  some- 
times interpreted,  what  posterity  has  seen 
to  be  a  regress,  as  a  forward  movement,  or 
as  an  ascent.  This  remark  applies  to 
national  decadence,  not  only  in  art,  but 
also  in  every  other  direction — in  philo- 
sophy, in  morals,  in  political  life,  and  in 
religion. 

Here  we  have  Professor  Knight  him- 
self, and  we  cannot  wish  to  have  him 
in  a  better  vein.  There  is  a  text  for 
a  sermon  on  Our  Noble  Selves  !  But 
such  periods  of  refreshment  are,  alas ! 


too  few  in  this  distracting  chase  after 
the  eternal  and  unseizable  shadow  of 
the  Beautiful. 

It  used  to  be  made,  and  perhaps  still 
in  certain  quarters  is  made,  a  reproach 
against  Matthew  Arnold  that  he  went 
about  the  world  preaching  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  culture  as  the  universal 
panacea  for  the  failures  and  short- 
comings of  our  nation.  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison,  in  an  angry  moment,  declared 
that  "  the  very  silliest  cant  of  the  day 
is  the  cant  about  culture."  All  cant 
is  »»illy,  as  well  as  mischievous.  But 
Arnold  never  canted  about  culture, 
though  unfortunately  he  enabled  others 
to  do  so.  "  Culture,"  Mr.  Harrison 
continued,  "  is  a  desirable  quality  in  a 
critic  of  new  books,  and  sits  well  on  a 
professor  of  belles  lettres  ;  but  as  applied 
to  politics,  it  means  simply  a  turn  for 
small  fault-finding,  love  of  selfish  ease, 
and  indecision  in  action.  The  man  of 
culture  is  one  of  the  poorest  creatures 
alive."  If  culture  means  this,  then 
assuredly  Mr.  Harrison  is  right ;  and 
though  of  course  true  culture  does  not 
mean  this — as  Mr.  Harrison  must  have 
known  when  his  anger  passed ;  for  is 
he  not  himself  a  man  of  culture  ? — it 
may  be  owned  that  it  will  not  by 
itself  equip  a  man  for  the  office  of 
a  political  teacher,  as  others  than 
Matthew  Arnold  have  proved.  But 
certainly  Mr.  Harrison  was  right  when 
he  poured  his  anathema  on  the  cant 
about  culture.  The  word  has  often 
been  very  idly  and  very  mischievously 
used  by  some  who  have  prated  about 
it  and  professed  to  practise  it.  I  will 
venture  to  quote  what  I  wrote  else- 
where on  this  subject  some  little  while 
back  : — 

The  chatter  that  went  on  a  year  or  two 
ago  upon  the  hundred  best  books  was  a 
notable  instance  of  the  cant  about  culture. 
It  was  impossible  to  look  at  the  greater 
part  of  those  lists,  and  of  the  well-meaning 
people  who  had  drawn  them  up,  without 
recalling  that  pithy  sentence  which  Mr. 
Arnold  has  somewhere  quoted  from  Bishop 
Butler,  that  in  general  no  part  of  our  time 
is  more  idly  spent  than  the  time  spent  in 
reading.  Culture,  as  defined  by  Mr.  Arnold 
is  **  to  know  the  best  that  has  been  thought 


The  Beautiful  and  the  Triie. 


273 


and  said  in  the  world  "  ;  but  this,  like  mbst 
definitions,  is  but  half  the  truth.  A  know- 
ledj^e  of  the  best  that  has  been  thought 
and  said  in  the  world  can  only  be  acquired 
by  reading ;  but  reading  alone  will  not 
avail  without,  as  Burke  said,  "  the  power  of 
diversifying  the  matter  infinitely  in  your 
own  mind,  and  of  applying  it  to  every 
occasion  that  arises."  And  culture  must  be 
relative.  It  is  not  every  man  who  can, 
like  Bacon,  take  all  knowledge  for  his 
province.  The  spectacle  of  Visto  toiling 
for  a  taste  is  much  less  pitiful  than  the 
struggle  going  on  to-day  among  so  many 
good  creatures  of  both  sexes  for  what  they 
are  pleased  to  call  culture.  Visto  only 
made  himself  ridiculous  ;  but  these  good 
souls,  and  especially  the  women,  besides 
doing  that  most  completely,  do  themselves 
also  infinite  harm.  They  perplex  and  un- 
settle themselves  with  subjects  they  cannot 
understand,  and  were  never  born  to  under-, 
stand.  They  fill  the  vacant  space  of  their 
heads  with  a  mass  of  undigested,  undi versi- 
fied reading,  which  only  disables  them  for 
the  proper  conduct  of  their  own  concerns. 
These  are  the  disciples  of  false  culture,  and 
they  are  unhappily  very  common  in  this 
age  of  little  books.  And  this  false  culture 
will  make  men  the  poorest  creatures  alive 
in  all  afi'airs. 

When  it  is  remembered  who  and  what 
are  to  be  the  readers  of  this  little 
Manual,  for  whom  and  what  has  been 
designed  the  system  of  teaching  of 
which  it  is  a  part,  what  is  their  age, 
what  has  been  their  education, 
what  will  be  the  life  they  are  be- 
ing trained  for,  is  there  not  some  fear 
lest  they  be  found  one  day  to  be  poor 
creatures  in  their  affairs  ?  Is  there 
not  some  fear  lest  the  time  they  have 
spent  in  reading  all  these  speculations 
on  the  Beautiful  may  be  found  to  have 
been  idly  spent  when  the  day  comes, 
as  it  must  come  to  ail  1,  for  them  to  take 
their  lives  into  their  own  hands  1  Some 
two  centuries  before  Burke  much  the 
same  warning  was  delivered  by  a 
homelier  sage  against  the  idea  that 
mere  reading  by  rote  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  make  a  wise  man.  In  his 
essay  on  Pedantry, — an  essay  as  sound 
as  it  is  amusing — Montaigne  is  particu- 
larly severe  on  that  sort  of  teaching 
which  merely  fills  the  memory  without 
No.  388. — VOL.  Lxv. 


reaching  the  understanding.  "  We 
can  say,  Cicero  says  this  is,  that  these 
were  the  manners  of  Plato,  and  that 
these  are  the  very  words  of  Aristotle  ; 
but  what  do  we  say  ourselves  that  is 
our  own  1  What  do  we  do  ?  What 
do  we  judge?  A  parrot  would  say  as 
much  as  that.'*  As  usual  he  borrows 
a  quotation  from  his  favourite  Seneca 
to  describe  this  sort  of  students  :  "  ^on 
vitce,  sed  scholce  discimus  ;  we  learn  not 
for  our  life,  but  for  the  school."  Or, 
as  he  puts  it  in  his  own  more  full- 
flavoured  phrase  :  "  What  avails  it  to 
have  our  bellies  full  of  meat,  if  it  be 
not  digested  1 "  Pupils  so  taught 
seem,  he  avers,  to  be  distracted  even 
from  common  sense. 

Note  but  the  plain  husbandman  or  the 
unwily  shoemaker,  and  you  see  them, 
simply  and  naturally  plod  on  their  course, 
speaking  only  of  what  they  know,  and  no 
further ;  whereas  these  letter-puft  pedants, 
because  they  would  'fain  raise  themselves 
aloft,  and  with  their  literal  doctrine  [mere 
book-learning]  which  floateth  up  and  down 
the  superficies  of  their  brain,  arm  them- 
selves beyond  other  men,  they  incessantly 
intricate  and  entangle  themselves :  they 
utter  lofty  words  and  speak  golden  sen 
tences,  but  so  that  another  man  doth  place, 
fit,  and  apply  them.  They  are  acquainted 
with  Galen,  but  know  not  the  disease. 

And  again : 

Whosoever  shall  narrowly  look  into  this 
kind  of  people,  which  far  and  wide  hath 
spread  itself,  he  shall  find  (as  I  have  done) 
that  for  the  most  part  they  neither  under- 
stand themselves  nor  others,  and  that  their 
memory  is  many  times  suificiently  full 
fraught,  but  their  judgment  ever  hollow 
and  empty. 

The  teacher,  he  says  elsewhere,  who 
shall  instruct  the  young  after  this 
fashion  "  shall  breed  but  asses  laden 
with  books." 

Montaigne  was  not  used  to  mince 
his  words,  and  Florio  was  at  no  great 
pains  to  soften  them.  I  would 
fain  end  with  a  gentler  teacher.  Let 
me  quote  once  more  the  object  of  the 
University  Extension  lecturer  as  de- 
fined in  Mr.  Jebb's  words  :  To  raise  the 


274 


The  Beautiful  and  the  True. 


whole  education  of  the  citizen,  to  enla/rge 
his  mental  horizon,  to  draw  out  his 
powers  of  thought  and  imagination,  to 
render  his  patriotism  more  intelligent, 
and  his  conception  of  life  more  fruitful. 
Will  Professor  Knight,  or  any  other 
of  the  generous  and  learned  gentlemen 
who  are  devoting  their  time  and  talents 
to  this  beneficent  end,  honestly  say 
that  they  believe  the  path  to  it  will  be 
appreciably  smoothed  for  any  boy  or 


girl  by  reading  that  **the  voice  of 
beauty  comes  not  to  the  soul  in  a 
categorical  imperative,"  or  that  the 
love  of  the  beautiful  is  only  "  the  sub- 
jective concomitant  of  the  normal 
amount  of  activity,  not  directly  con- 
nected with  life-serving  function,  in  the 
peripheral  end-organs  of  the  cerebro- 
spinal nervous  system  '*  1 

Mabk  Reid. 


275 


OUR   MILITARY  UNREADESTESS. 


FROM   THE   POINT   OP   VIEW   OF   THE   REGIMENTAL   OFFICER. 


The  voice  of  the  military  critic  has 
of  late  been  heard  in  the  land,  and  all 
who  will  listen  have  been  told  that 
the  British  army  as  an  effective  fight- 
ing machine  exists  no  longer  in  the 
United  Kingdom.  With  much  that 
has  been  written  on  this  subject  every 
regimental  officer  cannot  but  most 
cordially  agree.  He  knows,  if  any  one 
does,  where  the  shoe  pinches.  There 
is  not  an  officer  of  twenty  years'  ser- 
vice who  is  not  perfectly  well  aware 
that  the  powers  of  endurance,  the  dis- 
cipline, and  the  general  fitness  for  war 
of  the  soldiers  in  our  home  battalions 
have  deteriorated  lamentably  since  he 
first  joined  the  service.  All  that  has 
lately  been  proclaimed  abroad  as  some- 
thing new  is  but  an  echo  of  the  mess- 
room  talk  of  many  years  past ;  and  so 
familiarised  has  the  regimental  officer 
become  with  the  present  condition 
of  affairs  that  its  public  discussion 
has  almost  ceased  to  interest  him. 
The  lamentations  so  frequently  heard 
ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  on  the  part  of 
the  older  officers  seem  now  to  have 
given  place  to  the  callousness  of  de- 
spair, as  expressed  in  the  formula  but 
too  often  heard  among  infantry 
officers  that,  "  Anything  is  better  than 
regimental  soldiering  at  home."  A 
state  of  things  more  dangerous  than 
that  which  such  a  feeling  lays  bare  can 
hardly  be  conceived,  implying,  as  it 
does,  that  officers  have  for  some  rea- 
son almost  ceased  to  realise  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  their  position. 

*'But  what,"  it  will  be  asked,  "are 
these  responsibilities  if,  as  is  so  often 
asserted,  the  United  Kingdom  is  prac- 
tically safe  from  invasion  so  long  as 
our  navy  holds  command  of  the  sea  1 " 
Such  a  question  is  easily  answered. 
Our  home  battalions  are  in  present 
circumstances  but  the  nursery  and  the 


school  for  the  linked  battalions  abroad; 
and,  just  as  the  man  reflects  through 
life  the  training  of  his  earlier  days,  so 
beyond  question  is  it  a  fact  that  the 
soldier  is  made  or  marred  during  the 
period  of  instruction  which  he  under- 
goes as  a  recruit.  Then  must  be  learnt 
those  lessons  of  unquestioning  obe- 
dience to  his  superiors,  of  implicit  faith 
in  and  reliance  on  his  officers,  of  honour 
and  of  love  for  sovereign,  country, 
and  regiment  which  go  to  make  up 
that  true  discipline  which  is  the  very 
life  of  an  army.  Slackness  or  want  of 
interest  in  his  daily  work,  if  once 
allowed  to  take  firm  root,  can  never 
afterwards  be  entirely  eradicated. 
And  not  for  the  men  in  the  ranks  only 
is  the  home  battalion  the  training- 
ground,  but  here  also  a  large  propor- 
tion of  young  officers  acquire  their 
first  insight  into  their  profession. 

When  once  the  fact  has  been  fully 
grasped  that  it  is  on  the  condition  of 
the  battalions  at  home  that  the  effici- 
ency of  our  infantry  all  over  the  world 
directly  depends,  the  terrible  danger 
of  allowing  those  battalions  to  remain 
in  their  present  condition  of  unfitness 
for  war  becomes  at  once  apparent. 
That  the  great  majority  of  them  are 
for  all  practical  purposes  most  in- 
efficient, no  officer  of  any  judgment, 
who  knows  what  are  the  demands 
of  modern  war,  will  for  one  moment 
attempt  to  deny.  Physically  the  men 
who  compose  them  are  unable  to  meet 
even  the  very  moderate  demands  made 
on  their  endurance  during  our  yearly 
manoeuvres,  when,  be  it  remembered, 
they  are  not  required  to  carry  any- 
thing like  the  weight  which  would  be 
necessary  in  war. 

Bad  as  such  a  state  of  things  un- 
doubtedly is,  there  is  at  present  a  far 
more    terrible    fear    lurking    in    the 


276 


(yiir  Military  Unreadiness. 


minds  of  many  officers,  and  especially 
of  regimental  officers.     The  discipline 
of  our  army  is  certainly  not  now  what 
it   once   was.     To   prove   or  disprove 
such  an  assertion  it  is  absolutely  use- 
less to  turn,  as  is  so  frequently  done, 
to   records   of   punishments,  for  such 
records  are    capable   of   very    varied 
interpretation.     Mere  dread  of  punish- 
ment is  of  all  incentives  to  discipline 
the  most  unworthy  and  perhaps  the 
weakest.    In  old  days,  it  is  true,  when, 
as     the    Duke   of     Wellington    used 
to       say,      the     British     army    was 
composed    of     "  the    very    scum     of 
the    earth,"     the    cell   and   the   lash 
played  a  more  important  part  in  main- 
taining discipline  than   happily    they 
do   now.      But   with   all   the    brutal 
punishments  of  those  days  there  existed 
other  motives  of  a  higher  type  which 
were    conducive   to  true    discipline  in 
peace  and  war.      Of   these  the  most 
prominent  were  the  blind  confidence  in 
his  officers,   bred  of  long  association, 
and  the  almost  too  assertive  pride  of 
regiment    which    were    such   marked 
features   in   the    long-service    soldier. 
But  what  is  our  present  position  in 
this       respect  %       The       punishments 
awarded  for  "  crime,"  as  in  military 
parlance  all  offences  against  discipline 
are  termed,  grow  year  by  year  less  in 
number,    while   in    point  of    severity 
they  are  not  even  to  be  compared  with 
the  penalties  for  wrong-doing  endured 
by   the  past    generation.      That   this 
should  be  the  case  would  be  a  matter 
of  congratulation  were  it  certain  that 
the  quality  of  our  discipline  is  as  high 
now  as  it  was  then.  With  the  younger, 
better  educated,  and  more  sober  class 
of  men   who   now    enlist   it    is    only 
natural    to    expect    a    diminution   of 
"  crime "    of    all    sorts.     There    can, 
however,    be    but    little   doubt    that 
many    experienced     officers     are     of 
opinion  that  certain  offences  are   not 
now  punished  with  the  severity  which 
they  demand.     Nor  can  it  be  doubted 
that  the  other  incentives  to  discipline 
are   not  the  same   power   that     they 
once   were.       Esprit   de   corps  is  but 
a   shadow    of   its   old  self,    while  no 


one    will    pretend  that     the  county 
or    local     feeling,      which    presuma- 
bly  is   intended    to   take     its    place, 
has    hitherto    proved  in  any  way  an 
efficient  substitute.      It   is,  however, 
when  we  come  to  consider  the  existing 
relations    between   officers   and  their 
subordinates   that   the    most    serious, 
cause    for    reflection    presents   itself. 
At  a  time  when  officers  and  men  prac- 
tically spent  their  lives  in  one  regi- 
ment it  was  impossible  but  that  they 
should  in  course  of  time  gain  a  more 
or  less  intimate  knowledge    of    each 
other;  and  with  British  soldiers  mutuail 
knowledge  has,  thank  heaven !    ever 
meant  mutual  confidence.     The  regi- 
ment  was   to   all   their   home.      But 
what  is  our  position  to-day  in  this  re- 
spect 1      Literally    almost   before  the 
young  soldier  has  learnt  the  names  of 
his  officers  he  is  shipped  off  to  a  hun- 
gry linked  battalion  in  some  foreign 
land.     The   company  officers  on  their 
part  make  but  little  pretence  of  taking 
any  interest  in  youths  who  come  to- 
day and   are   gone   to-morrow.      And 
after    all     why    should   they   do  so? 
They  are  not  responsible  for  the  train- 
ing of  these  youths,  that  being  the  sole 
concern    of     the    adjutant     and    the 
serjeant-major.     There  is  probably  no 
human  being  on  this  earth  more  full 
of  keenness  and  more  fit  to  bear  his 
modicum    of     responsibility    than    a 
healthy  English  youth   fresh  from,  a 
public  school.     And  yet,  if  ever  a  sys- 
tem could  be  devised  to  destroy  the 
natural  keenness  in  him  and  to  unfit 
him  for  bearing  responsibility,  that  sys- 
tem is  ours.     Not  only  does  he  soon 
learn  by  experience  that  there  is  but 
little   outlet   for   his   energy   in   real 
soldiering,  that  is  in  training  his  men 
for  war  and  for  war  only,  but  his  ob- 
servation teaches  him  that  any  great 
display  of    zeal  on  his    part  will  en- 
tail   more     than    his    share    of    the 
necessary,    but    none    the  less    dull, 
routine    duties   of    barrack   life.     He 
who  desires  a  somewhat  more  stirring 
existence    will   acquire  for  himself  as 
rapidly     as     possible     a     reputation 
for    knowing     and     caring    for    no- 


Our  Military  Unreadiness. 


277 


thing  military,  for  by  this  means 
most  surely  will  be  obtained  the  re- 
quisite leisure  for  the  more  congenial 
pursuits  of  the  cricket-ground,  the 
racecourse,  or  the  hunting-field.  Our 
friend,  moreover,  has  the  pleasurable 
feeling  that,  no  matter  how  much  he 
may  neglect  his  duty,  his  chances  of 
promotion  in  due  course  are  as  certain 
iis  are  those  of  his  less  observant  com- 
rade, who  vainly  imagines  that  his  daily 
presence  at  the  door  of  the  orderly-room 
is  a  benefit  either  to  himself  or  to  the 
men  whom  he  aspires  to  influence. 
Exaggerated  as  such  a  picture  may 
appear,  it  is  unfortunately  but  too 
faithful  a  description  of  our  present 
system  of  regimental  administration  in 
many  infantry  battalions.  Here  if 
anywhere  will  be  found  the  cause  of 
our  present  unreadiness  for  war,  and  of 
the  lack  of  interest  in  his  profession 
which  the  regimental  officer  is  so  freely 
abused  for  displaying. 

In  the  officers  and  men  of  our  line 
battalions  England  possesses  to-day  a 
raw  material  absolutely  unequalled 
both  for  physique  and  individual  in- 
telligence in  the  armies  of  the  Conti- 
nent. This  statement  is  indeed  no 
mere  ignorant  blast  of  insular  preju- 
dice. It  is  a  deliberate  and  honest 
opinion  based  on  personal  observation 
in  favourable  circumstances  of  both 
the  French  and  the  German  armies ; 
and  it  is  a  statement  which  may  con- 
fidently be  submitted  to  the  judgment 
of  all  who  have  had  opportunities  of 
ascertaining  what  is  the  raw  material 
of  those  armies.  And  yet  those 
armies  achieve  in  a  few  months  results 
of  physical  and  intellectual  efficiency 
which  appear  almost  incredible  to  us. 
What  then  is  the  cause  1 

The  answer  to  this  question  is  to  be 
found  in  the  words  of  a  young  Prussian 
regimental  officer,  who,  after  the  war 
of  1866,  ventured  to  raise  his  voice 
against  an  antiquated  system  of 
tactics  which  the  traditions  of  his  ser- 
vice had  rendered  sacred  in  the  eyes 
of  the  older  officers.  "  The  captain 
commanding  a  company,"  writes 
Captain  May   in    his   Tactical   Retro- 


spect,   "is  the    only  officer    between 
whom  and  the  soldier  a  personal  rela- 
tion exists  in  peace  time.      He  knows 
every  individual  soldier  in  the  most 
intimate  manner,  and  the  soldier  on 
his   part    is   aware  that  his    captain 
so  knows  him.     It  is  upon  this  rela- 
tion that  the  uncommon  influence  rests 
which  he,  above  all  other  officers,  has 
over  the  individual  soldier,  as  well  as 
over  the  whole  company.     The  soldier 
sees  his  nearest  home  in  his  company, 
and  he  has,  under  all  circumstances,  a 
decided  feeling  for  his  captain,   even 
though  it  be  one  of  hatred.     In  most 
cases,  however,  it  is  a  feeling  of  love, 
confidence,  and  respect    .     .     .     They 
\i.e.f  the  captain  and  his  subordinate] 
become   accustomed   to  one  another, 
have  their  fits  of  ill-temper  at  times 
on  both  sides;    but  when  at  length 
the  hour  comes  that  they  are  finally 
to  part,  there  is  an  earnest  feeling  of 
sorrow  which  cannot  be  suppressed. 
.     .     .  The  beautiful  relation  between 
the  soldier  and  his  captain  is  a  corner- 
stone of  our  army,  and  not  one  of  the 
least  firm  ones.     The  highest  reward 
which  the   soldier  can  obtain   during 
his  service  springs  from  his  captain, 
namely  the  confidence  of  his  company 
leader ;  and  he,  on  his  part,  will  find 
in  the  attachment  of  his  subordinate 
the  most  precious  reward  which  will 
fall  to  him  in  his  lifetime." 

In  these  words  breathes  the  spirit 
which  has  made  the  German  army 
what  it  is  to-day — that  spirit  which 
Scharnhorst  and  the  other  great  foun- 
ders of  the  modern  military  system 
foresaw  so  plainly  must  exist,  unless 
a  short-service  army  was  to  become  an 
empty  delusion.  The  means  employed 
to  bring  about  this  intimate  relation 
between  officers  and  men  may  be 
summed  up  in  the  one  word  responsi- 
hility. 

The  German  captain  has  about 
fifty  recruits  handed  over  to  him  in 
November,  and  in  some  four  months 
from  that  time  he  knows  that  they 
must  have  attained  to  a  certain  degree 
of  efficiency,  and  that  a  high  one,  be- 
fore they  can   be   passed   as  trained 


278 


Our  Military   Unreadiness. 


soldiers.  The  method  of  bringing 
them  to  this  pitch  of  excellence  is  left 
entirely  to  the  discretion  of  the  indi- 
vidual officer. 

The  inspection  of  recruits  is,  in  the 
German  army,  a  great  function,  and 
often  takes  place  in  the  presence  of 
the  general  officer   commanding   the 
brigade,   the    division,    or    even    the 
army-corps.       On  the  results  of  this 
inspection  the  captain  knows  that  his 
chances  of  promotion  directly  depend ; 
or  rather,  he  is  fully  aware  that  an 
unsatisfactory  inspection    in   two   or 
three  successive  years  would  of  a  cer- 
tainty mean  the  loss  of  his  commis- 
sion.      He  further    knows  that    be- 
fore the  following  autumn,  when  the 
manoeuvres    take  place,  the  whole  of 
his  company,  about  140  strong,  must 
be  fit  to  march  anywhere  and  do  any- 
thing.    It  is  this  very  real  responsi- 
bility   of  the  company  officer  which 
makes  the    German  and  the  French 
armies  the  splendid  fighting  machines 
which  they  are,  and  there  is  absolutely 
no  reason  whatever   why  our   home 
army  should  not  be  in  every  respect 
as  efficient  as  they  are.     Let  it  once 
be  laid  down  as  a  hard-and-fast    rule 
that  a  smaller  number  than  say  fifty 
recruits  shall  never  be  sent  from  the 
depot  to    the    home    battalion ;     let 
them  be  posted  entirely  to  one  com- 
pany ;   let  some  standard  of  efficiency, 
the  higher  the  better,  in  drill,field-exer- 
cises,  gymnastics,  musketry,  marching 
under  conditions  of  war,  the  history  of 
the  country  and  of  the  regiment,  be 
laid  down  by  regulation  as  attainable 
in  a  given   time  ;  above  all,  let  the 
captain  be  held  personally  responsible 
that  this  standard  is  attained,  and  it 
may  confidently  be  predicted  that  the 
cry  of  short  service  having  ruined  our 
army  will  be  heard  no  more.  If,  more- 
over, besides  putting  the  responsibility 
for  the  training  of  his  men  on  the  cap- 


tain, his  disciplinary  powers  be  widely 
extended,  so  that  he,  instead  of  the  bat- 
talion commander  as  at  present,  shall 
become  in  all  ordinary  circumstances 
the  dispenser  of  justice  to  his  men,  it 
is  obvious  that  the  relations  between 
them  must  in  future  be  of  a  more  in- 
timate character  than  in  the  past. 

For  twenty  years  we  have  been 
striving  after  the  impossible.  A  regi- 
mental system  centralised  in  a  com- 
manding officer,  an  adjutant,  and  a 
Serjeant- major,  however  excellent  it 
may  have  been  when  recruits  were 
few,  is  in  present  circumstances  a 
hopeless  anachronism. 

The  energy  which  the  company 
officer  throws  into  his  work  during  the 
too  brief  period  of  company  training, 
when  for  a  few  weeks  he  feels  that  he 
is  really  preparing  his  men  for  war,  is 
evidence  of  what  might  be  expected 
were  this  the  case  throughout  the 
year. 

It  is  not  asked  that  extra  burdens^ 
such  as  pay  and  clothing  accounts^ 
which  can  hardly  be  said  to  bring  him 
nearer  to  his  men,  should  be  cast  on 
his  shoulders,  for  a  nation  such  as 
England  can  well  afford  that  such 
duties  should  be  undertaken  by  a 
special  staff.  But  it  is  imperatively 
demanded  by  the  conditions  of  a  short- 
service  army  that  every  officer  shall 
from  the  day  of  joining  feel  that  the 
discipline  and  the  war-training  of  the 
men  under  him  is  his  one  essential 
duty — a  duty  which  he  must  fulfil  if 
he  is  to  continue  to  serve  Her  Majesty. 
Thus  and  thus  only  can  the  discipline 
and  the  efficiency  of  the  British 
army  be  made  what  they  once  were. 
Thus  and  thus  only  will  Englishmen 
be  once  more  in  a  position  to  ask  the 
question  so  proudly  put  by  Sir  Charles 
Napier : — "  How  is  it  possible  to  defeat 
British  troops  ? " 


279 


THE  VILLAGE  LEGACY. 


"The  case  of  Mussumat^  Nuttia 
being  without  heirs,"  droned  the 
Court-Inspector. 

"Bring  her  in." 

'*  She  is  already  in  the  Presence. 
If  the  Protector  of  the  Poor  will  rise 
somewhat, — at  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  Huzoorl — beside  the  yellow- 
trousered  legs  of  the  guardian  of 
peace, — that  is  Mussumat  Nuttia." 

A  child  some  three  years  of  age, 
with  a  string  of  big  blue  beads  round 
her  neck, — a  child  who  had  evidently 
had  a  very  satisfying  meal,  and  who 
was  even  now  preserving  its  contour 
by  half-a-yard  of  sugar-cane,  stared 
gravely  back  at  the  Assistant  Magis- 
trate's grave  face. 

"  She  has  no  heirs  of  any  kind  1 " 
he  asked. 

"  None,  Huzoor  !  Her  mother  was 
of  the  Harni  tribe,  working  harvests 
in  Bhamaniwallah-khurd.  There  the 
misfortune  of  being  eaten  by  a  snake 
came  upon  her  by  the  grace  of 
God.  Slussiunat  Nuttia  therefore 
remains, — " 

"  Oh,  Guardian  of  the  Poor  ! ''  said 
two  voices  in  unison,  as  two  tall 
bearded  figures  swathed  in  whitish- 
brown  draperies  pressed  a  step 
forward  with  out-stretched  peti- 
tioning hands.  They  had  been 
awaiting  this  crisis  all  day  long, 
with  that  mixture  of  tenacity  and 
indifference  which  is  seen  on  most  faces 
in  an  Indian  court. 

*'Give  her  in  charge  of  the  head- 
men of  the  village ;  they  are  re- 
sponsible." 

"  Shelter  of  the  world  I  'tis  falsely 
represented.  The  woman  was  a 
vagrant,  a  loose  walker,  a — " 

"  Is  the  order  written  ?  Then 
bring  the  next  case." 

*  A  title    of  courtesy  equivalent    to    our 


One     flourish     of      a      pen,      and 
Mussumat    Nuttia  became  a  village- 
legacy;    the    only    immediate    result 
being    that   having    sucked    one   end 
of    her    sugar-cane    dry,    she    began 
methodically  on   the  other.     Half-an- 
hour  afterwards,  mounted  on  a  white 
pony,  with   pink   eyes  and  nose   and 
a  dyed   pink  tail  to  match,  she  was 
on   her   way  back  to   the  cluster   of 
reed   huts    dignified   by  the  name  of 
Bhamaniwallah-khurd,  or  Little  Bha- 
maniwallah.     Big  Bhamaniwallah  lay 
a  full  mile  to  the  northward,  secured 
against    midsummer    floods    by    the 
high    bank    which    stretched    like   a 
mud   wall    right   across    the    Punjab 
plain,  from   the    skirts   of    the   hills 
to    the    great    meeting   of    the    five 
waters    at    Mittankote.      But    Little 
Bhamaniwallah    lay    in    the    lap    of 
the     river,    and     so     BahUdur,     and 
Boota,  and  Jodha,  and  all  the  grave 
big-bearded     Dogas    who     fed    their 
herds   of   cattle   on    the   low   ground 
and  speculated  in  the   cultivation  of 
sand-banks,    lived    with    their    loins 
girded     ready    to    shift    house    with 
the    shifting    of     the     river.      That 
was    why    the    huts    were    made   of 
reeds ;    that    was    why    the    women 
of  the  village  clanked  about  in  solid 
silver   jewellery,   thus    turning   their 
persons  into  a  secure  savings-bank. 

Mussumat  Jewun,  Bahadur  the  head- 
man's wife,  wore  bracelets  like  man- 
acles, and  a  perfect  yoke  of  a  necklet, 
as  she  patted  out  the  dough  cakes 
and  expostulated  shrilly  at  the  intro- 
duction of  a  new  mouth  into  the 
family,  when  Nuttia,  fast  asleep, 
was  lifted  from  the  pony  and  put 
down  in  the  warm  sand  by  the  door. 

"  She  belongs  to  the  village," 
replied  the  elders  wagging  their 
beards.  "  God  knows  what  my 
Lords    desire   with   the    Harni   brat. 


280 


The   Village  Legacy. 


but  if  they  ask  for  her,  she  must 
be  forthcoming ;  ay !  and  fat.  They 
like  people  to  grow  fat,  even  in  their 
jail-Mana«." 

So  Nuttia  grew  fat ;  she  would 
have  grown  fat  even  had  the  fear 
of  my  Lords  not  been  before  the 
simple  villagers'  eyes,  for  despite  her 
tender  years  she  was  eminently  fit- 
ted to  take  care  of  herself.  She 
had  an  instinct  as  to  the  houses 
where  good  things  were  being  pre- 
pared, and  her  chubby  little  hand, 
imperiously  stretched  out  for  a 
portion  was  seldom  sent  away  empty. 
Indeed,  to  tell  the  sober  truth,  Nuttia 
was  not  to  be  gainsaid  as  to  her 
own  hunger.  "  My  stomach  is  bigger 
than  thaty  grandmother  I "  she  would 
say  confidently  if  the  alms  appeared 
to  her  inadequate,  and  neither  cuffs 
nor  neglect  altered  her  conviction. 
She  never  cried,  and  the  little  fat 
hand  silently  demanding  more,  came 
back  again  and  again  after  every 
rebuff  till  she  felt  herself  in  a  con- 
dition to  seek  some  warm  sunny 
corner,  and  curl  round  to  sleep. 
She  lived,  for  the  most  part,  with 
the  yelping,  slouching,  village  dogs, 
following  them,  as  the  nights  grew 
chill,  to  the  smouldering  brick-kilns, 
where  she  fed  the  little  dust-coloured 
puppies  with  anything  above,  or  be- 
neath, her  own  appetite. 

As  she  outgrew  childhood's  vestment 
of  curves  and  dimples,  some  one  gave 
her  an  old  rag  of  a  petticoat.  Perhaps 
the  acquisition  of  clothes  followed,  as 
in  ancient  days,  a  fall  from  grace ; 
certain  it  was  that  Nuttia  in  a 
garment  was  a  far  less  estimable 
member  of  society  than  JSTuttia  with- 
out one.  To  begin  with,  it  afforded 
opportunity  for  the  display  of  many 
mortal  sins.  Vainglory  in  her  own 
appearance,  deceit  in  attempting  to 
palm  the  solitary  prize  off  on  the 
world  as  a  various  and  complete  ward- 
robe, and  dishonesty  flagrant  and 
unabashed  ;  for  once  provided  with  a 
convenient  receptacle  for  acquired 
trifles  Nuttia  took  to  stealing  as 
a  aturally  as  a  puppy  steals  bones. 


Then,  once  having  recognised  the 
pleasures  of  possession,  she  fought 
furiously  against  any  infringement  of 
her  rights.  A  boy  twice  her  size  went 
yelling  home  to  his  parents  on  her 
first  resort  to  brute  force  consequent 
on  the  discovery  of  a  potsherd  tied  to 
her  favourite  puppy's  tail.  This 
victory  proving  unfortunate  for  the 
peace  of  the  village,  the  head-men 
awoke  to  the  necessity  for  training  up 
their  Legacy  in  the  paths  of  virtue. 
So  persistent  pummelling  was  resorted 
to  with  the  happiest  effect.  Nuttia 
stole  and  fought  no  more ;  she  retired 
with  dignity  from  a  society  which 
failed  to  appreciate  her,  and  took  to 
the  wilderness  instead.  At  earliest 
dawn,  after  her  begging-round  was 
over,  she  would  wander  out  from  the 
thorn-enclosures  to  the  world ;  a 
kaleidoscope  world  where  fields  ripened 
golden  crops  one  year,  and  the  next 
brought  the  red  brown  river  wrinkling 
and  dimpling  in  swift  current ;  where 
big,  brand-new  continents  rose  up 
before  eager  eyes,  and  clothed  them- 
selves in  green  herbs  and  creeping 
things  innumerable,  going  no  further 
however  in  the  scale  of  creation, 
except  when  the  pelicans  hunched 
themselves  together  to  doze  away 
digestion,  or  a  snub-nosed  alligator 
took  a  slimy  snooze  on  the  extreme 
edge.  If  you  wished  to  watch  the 
birds,  or  the  palm-squirrels,  or  the 
jerboa  rats,  you  had  to  face  north- 
wards and  skirt  the  high  bank.  So 
much  of  Dame  Nature's  ways,  and  a 
vast  deal  more,  MussumS-t  Nuttia 
learnt  ere  the  setting  sun  and  hunger 
drove  her  back  to  the  brick-kilns,  and 
the  never  failing  meal  of  scraps, — 
never  failing,  because  the  Lords  of  the 
Universe  liked  people  to  be  fat,  and 
the  head-men  were  responsible  for  their 
Legacy's  condition. 

So  when  an  Assistant  Magistrate, — 
indefinite  because  of  the  constant 
changes  which  apparently  form  part 
of  Western  policy, — included  the 
Bhamaniwallahs  in  his  winter  tour  of 
inspection,  a  punchaiyut,  or  Council  of 
Five,  decided  that  it  was  the  duty  of 


The   Village  Legacy, 


281 


the  village  to  provide  Nuttia  with  a 
veil,  in  case  she  should  he  haled  to  the 
Presence ;  and  two  yards  of  Man- 
<jhester  muslin  were  purchased  from 
the  reserve  funds  of  the  village,  and 
handed  over  to  the  child  with  many 
wise  saws  on  the  general  advisability 
■of  decency.  Nuttia's  delight  for  the 
iirst  five  minutes  was  exhilarating, 
and  sent  the  head-men  back  to  other 
duties  with  a  glow  of  self-satisfaction 
on  their  solemn  faces.  Then  she  folded 
the  veil  up  quite  square,  sat  down  on 
it,  and  meditated  on  the  various  uses 
to  which  it  could  be  put. 

The  result  may  be  told  briefly. 
Two  days  afterwards  the  Assistant 
Magistrate,  being  a  keen  sportsman, 
was  crawling  on  his  stomach  to  a 
certain  long  low  pool  much  frequented 
by  teal  and  mallard.  In  the  rear, 
/earning  white  through  the  caper 
bushes,  showed  the  usual  cloud  of 
witnesses  filled  with  patient  amaze- 
ment at  this  unnecessary  display  of 
•energy ;  yet  for  all  that  counting 
shrewdly  on  the  good  temper  likely  to 
result  from  good  sport.  So  much  so, 
that  the  sudden  uprising  into  bad 
language  of  the  Huzoor  sent  them 
forward  prodigal  of  apology  \  but  the 
^ight  that  met  their  eyes  dried  up  the 
fountain  of  excuse.  Nuttia,  stark 
naked,  stood  knee-deep  in  the  very 
<3entre  of  the  pool,  catching  small  fry 
with  a  bag-net  ingeniously  constructed 
out  of  the  Manchester  veil. 

The  imnchaiyut  sat  again  to  agree 
that  a  child  who  could  not  only  destroy 
the  sport  of  the  Guardian  of  the  Poor, 
but  could  also  drag  the  village  honour 
through  the  mud,  despite  munificent 
inducements  toward  decency,  must  be 
possessed  of  a  devil.  So  JSTuttia  was 
fjolemnly  censed  with  red  pepper  and 
turmeric,  until  her  yells  and  struggles 
were  deemed  sufficient  to  denote  a 
■casting  out  of  the  evil  spirit.  It  is 
not  in  the  slow-brained,  calm-hearted 
peasant  of  India  to  be  unkind  to 
children,  and  so,  when  the  function 
was  over,  Mussumat  Jewun  and  the 
other  deep-chested,  shrill-voiced  women 
oomforted  the  victim  with  sweetmeats 


and  the  assurance  that  she  would  be 
ever  so  much  better  behaved  in 
future. 

Nuttia  eyed  them  suspiciously,  but 
ate  her  sweetmeats.  This  incident 
did  not  increase  her  confidence  in 
humanity;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
attitude  of  the  brute  creation  was  a 
sore  disappointment  to  her.  She 
might  have  had  a  heart  instinct  with 
greed  of  capture  and  sudden  death, 
instead  of  that  dim  desire  of  com- 
panionship, for  all  the  notice  taken  by 
the  birds,  and  the  squirrels,  and  the 
rats,  of  her  outstretched  handful  of 
crumbs.  She  would  sit  for  long 
hours,  silent  as  a  little  bronze  image 
set  in  the  sunshiny  sand  ;  then  in  a 
rage,  she  would  fling  the  crumbs  at 
the  timid  creatures,  and  go  home  to 
the  dogs  and  the  buffaloes.  They 
at  least  were  not  afraid  of  her  ;  but 
then  they  were  afraid  of  nobody,  and 
Nuttia  wanted  something  of  her  very 
own. 

One  day  she  found  it.  It  was  only 
an  old  bed-leg,  but  to  the  eye  of  faith 
an  incarnation.  For  the  leg  of  an 
Indian  bed  is  not  unlike  a  huge  nine- 
pin,  and  even  a  Western  imagination 
can  detect  the  embryo  likeness  between 
a  ninepin  and  the  human  form  divine. 
Man  has  a  head,  so  has  a  ninepin ;  and 
if  humanity  is  to  wear  petticoats  one 
solid  leg  is  quite  as  good  as  two  ;  nay 
better,  since  it  stands  more  firmly. 
Arms  were  of  course  wanting,  but  the 
holes  ready  cut  in  the  oval  centre  for 
the  insertion  of  the  bed-frame  formed 
admirable  sockets  for  two  straight 
pieces  of  bamboo.  At  this  stage 
Nuttia's  treasure  presented  the 
appearance  of  a  sign-post;  but  the 
passion  of  creation  was  on  the  child, 
and  a  few  hours  afterwards  something 
comically,  yet  pitifully,  like  the  Legacy 
herself  stared  back  at  her  from  that 
humble  studio  among  the  dirt-heaps, 
— a  shag  of  goat's  hair  glued  on  with 
prickly  pear-juice,  two  lovely  black 
eyes  drawn  with  Mussumit  Jewun's 
hliol  pencil,  a  few  blue  beads,  a  scanty 
petticoat  and  veil  filched  from  the 
(child's  own  garments. 


282 


The   Village  Legacy. 


Nuttia,  inspired  by  the  recollection 
of    a    tinsel-decorated    bride   in    Big 
Bhamaniwallah,    called    her   creature 
Sirdar   Begum  on    the    spot.       Then 
she  hid  her  away  in  a  tussock  of  tiger- 
grass   beyond   the    thorn    enclosures, 
and  strove  to  go  her  evening  rounds 
as    though    nothing    had     happened. 
Yet  it    was    as    if    an    angel    from 
heaven  had    stepped    down   to    take 
her    by    the   hand.        Henceforward 
she    was    never    to    be    alone.      All 
through  the  silent  sunny  days,  as  she 
watched  the  big  black  buffaloes  graz- 
ing on  the    muddy  flats — for  Nuttia 
was  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  a  herd- 
girl  by  this  time — Sirdar  Begum  was 
with    her  as   guide,    counsellor,    and 
friend.     Whether  the  doll  fared  best 
with  a  heart's  whole  devotion  poured 
out  on  her  wooden  head,  or  whether 
Nuttia' s   part    in    giving    was    more 
blessed,  need  not  be  considered;  the 
result  to  both  being  a  steady  grin  on  a 
broad    round    face.     But    there    was 
another  result  also ;  Nuttia  began  to 
develope    a   taste     for    pure    virtue. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  necessity  of  posing 
before    Sirdar    Begum    as    infallible, 
joined  to  the  desire  of  keeping   that 
young  person's  conduct  up  to  heroic 
pitch,  which  caused  the  sudden  rise  in 
principle.     At  all  events  the  Legacy's 
cattle    became    renowned    as    steady 
milkers,  and   the    amount    of   butter 
she  managed  to  twirl  out  of  the  sour 
curds      satisfied       even        Mussum4t 
Jewun's     demands ;     whereupon    the 
other    herds   looked   at  her  askance, 
and  muttered  an  Indian  equivalent  of 
seven  devils.     Then  the  necessity  for 
amusing  the  doll  led  Nuttia  into  lin- 
gering round  the  little  knots  of  story- 
tellers who  sat  far  on  into  the  night, 
discoursing  oijina  and  ghouls,  of  faith- 
ful lovers,  virtuous  maidens,  and  the 
beauties  of   holiness.     Down   on    the 
edge    of    the    big   stream,    with    the 
water  sliding  by,   Nuttia  rehearsed  all 
these  wonders  to  her  adored  bed-leg 
until,  falling  in  love  with  righteous- 
ness, she  took  to  telling  the  truth. 

It  was  a  fatal  mistake  in  a  cattle- 
lifting  district,  and    Bhamaniwallah- 


khurd  lay  in  the  very  centre  of  that 
maze  of  tamarisk  jungle,  quicksand, 
and  stream,  which  forms  the  cattle- 
thief's  best  refuge.  So  Bahadur,  and 
Jodha,  and  Boota,  together  with  many 
another  honest  man  made  a  steady  in- 
come by  levying  black-mail  on  those 
who  sought  safety  within  their  boun- 
daries :  and  this  without  in  any  way 
endangering  their  own  reputetions 
All  that  had  to  be  done  was  to  oblit- 
erate strange  tracks  by  sending  their 
own  droves  in  the  right  direction,  and 
thereafter  to  keep  silence.  And  every 
baby  in  both  Bhamaniwallahs  knew 
that  hoof -prints  were  not  a  legitimate 
subject  for  conversation ;  all  save 
Nuttia,  and  she — as  luck  would  have 
it— was  a  herd-girl!  They  tried 
beating  this  sixth  sense  into  her,  but 
it  was  no  use,  and  so  whenever  the 
silver-fringed  turban,  white  cotton 
gloves,  and  clanking  sword  of  the 
native  Inspector  of  Police  were  ex- 
pected in  the  village,  they  used  to 
send  the  Legacy  away  to  the  back  of 
beyond, — right  away  to  the  Luckim- 
pura  island  maybe,  to  reach  which 
she  had  to  hold  on  to  the  biggest 
buffalo's  tail,  and  so,  with  Sirdar 
Begum  tied  securely  to  its  horns  and 
her  own  little  black  head  bobbing  up 
and  down  in  its  wake,  the  trio  would 
cross  the  narrow  stream  and  spread 
themselves  out  to  dry  on  the  hot  sand. 
Nuttia  took  a  great  fancy  to  the 
island,  and  many  a  time  when  she 
might  have  driven  the  herds  to 
nearer  pastures,  preferred  the  long- 
low  stretches  of  Luckimpura  where  a 
flush  of  green  lingered  even  in  the 
droughts  of  April. 

But  even  there  on  one  very  hot  day 
scarcely  a  blade  was  to  be  found,  and 
Nuttia,  careful  of  her  beasts  and  not- 
ing the  lowness  of  the  nver,  gathered 
them  round  her  with  the  herdsman'si 
cry  and  drove  them  to  the  further 
brink  intending  to  take  them  across 
to  a  smaller  island  beyond.  To  her 
surprise  they  stood  knee  deep  in  the 
water  immovable,  impassive,  noses  in 
air,  with  long  curled  horns  lying  on 
their  necks. 


The  Village  Legacy, 


283 


The  Legacy  shaded  her  eyes  to  see 
more  clearly.  Nothing  was  to  be 
seen  but  the  swift  shallow  stream,  the 
level  sand,  and  gleams  of  water 
stretching  away  to  the  horizon. 
Something  had  frightened  them — but 
what  1  She  gave  up  the  puzzle,  and 
with  Sirdar  Begum  bolt  upright  be- 
fore her  sat  on  a  snag,  dangling  her 
feet  over  the  stream  for  the  sake  of 
the  cool  air  which  seemed  to  rise  from 
the  river. 

The  buffaloes  roamed  restlessly 
about,  disturbed  doubtless  by  the 
clouds  of  flies.  The  sun  beat  down 
ineffectually  on  the  doll's  fuzzy  head, 
but  it  pierced  JSTuttia's  thick  pate 
making  her  nod  drowsily.  Her  voice 
recounting  the  thrilling  adventures  of 
brave  Bhopalutchi  died  away  into  a 
sigh  of  sleep.  So  there  was  nothing 
left  but  the  doll's  wide  unwinking  eyes 
to  keep  watch  over  the  world. 

What  was  that?  Something  cold, 
icy-cold  !  Nuttia  woke  with  a  start. 
One  brown  heel  had  touched  the 
water ;  she  looked  down  at  it,  then 
swiftly  around  her.  The  buffaloes 
huddled  by  the  ford  had  ceased  to 
graze,  and  a  quiver  of  light  greeted 
her  glance  at  the  purple  horizon.  She 
sprang  to  her  feefc  and  breaking  off  a 
root  from  the  snag,  held  it  to  the 
dimpling  water.  The  next  instant  a 
scared  face  looked  at  the  horizon  once 
more.  The  river  was  rising  fast, 
rising  as  she  had  never  seen  it  rise  be- 
fore. Yet  in  past  years  she  had  wit- 
nessed many  a  flood  ;  floods  that  had 
swept  away  much  of  the  arable  land 
and  driven  the  villagers  to  till  new 
soil  thrown  up  nearer  the  high  bank. 
Ay !  and  driven  many  of  them  to 
seek  new  homes  beside  the  new  flelds, 
until  Bh4maniwallah-khurd  had  dwin- 
dled away  to  a  few  houses,  a  very  few, 
and  these  on  that  hot  April  day  de- 
serted for  the  most  part,  since  all  the 
able-bodied  men  and  women  were 
away  at  the  harvest.  Even  the  herds 
had  driven  their  cattle  northwards, 
hoping  to  come  in  for  some  of  the 
lively  bustle  of  the  fields.  There 
were  only  Nuttia  on  the  Luckimpura 


island  and  Mussumat  Jewun,  with  her 
new  baby  and  the  old  hag  who  nursed 
her,  in  the  reed  huts.  All  this  came  to 
the  girl's  memory  as  the  long  low  cry 
of  the  herd  rose  on  the  hot  air,  and 
with  Sirdar  Begum  close  clasped  in  her 
veil  she  drove  the  big  buffalo  Moti 
into  the  stream.  How  cold  the  water 
was  ;  cold  as  the  snows  from  which  it 
came  !  The  Legacy  had  not  lived  in 
the  lap  of  the  river  for  so  long  without 
learning  somewhat  of  its  ways.  She 
knew  of  the  frost-bound  sources 
whence  it  flowed,  and  of  the  disastrous 
floods  which  follow  beneath  a  cloudless 
sky,  on  unusual  heat  or  unusual  rain 
in  those  mountain  fastnesses.  The 
coming  storm,  whose  arch  of  cloudy 
shimmering  with  sheet-lightning,  had 
crept  beyond  the  line  of  purple  ha^e, 
was  nothing;  that  was  not  the  night- 
mare of  the  river-folk. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  when  dry 
land  was  reached,  hesitating  whether 
to  strike  straight  for  the  high  bank 
or  make  for  the  village  lying  a  mile 
distant.  Some  vague  instinct  of  show- 
ing Sirdar  Begum  she  was  not  afraid, 
made  her  choose  the  latter  course,, 
though  most  of  the  herd  refused  to 
follow  her  decision  and  broke  away. 
She  collected  her  few  remaining  favour- 
ites, and  with  cheerful  cries  plunged 
into  the  tamarisk  jungle.  Here,  shut 
out  from  sight,  save  of  the  yielding 
bushes,  her  thoughts  went  far  afield. 
What  if  the  old  nvUah  between  the 
reed  huts  and  the  rising  ground  were 
to  fill  ?  What  if  the  low  levels  be- 
tween that  rising  ground  and  the  high 
bank  were  to  flood  ?  And  every  one 
beyond  in  the  yellow  com,  except  Mai 
Jewun  and  people  who  did  not  count, 
— babies,  and  old  women,  and  the 
crippled  girl  in  the  far  hut !  Only 
herself  and  Sirdar  Begum  to  be  brave^ 
for  Mai  Jewun  was  sick. 

"  Wake  up !  Wake  up  !  Mai  Jewun ! 
the  floods  are  out !  "  broke  in  on  the 
new-born  baby's  wail  as  Nuttia's  broad 
scared  face  shut  out  the  sunlight  from 
the  door. 

"  Go  away,  unlucky  daughter  of  a^ 
bad  mother,"  grumbled  Jewun  drow- 


284 


The  Village  Legacy, 


tsily.     "  Dost  wish  to  cast  thy  evil  eye 
on  my  heart's  delight  1     Go,  I  say." 

"  Yea !  go  !  "  grumbled  the  old 
nurse  cracking  her  fingers.  "  Sure 
some  devil  possesseth  thee  to  tell  truth 
or  lies  at  thy  own  pleasure." 

But  the  crippled  girl  spinning  in 
the  far  hut  had  heard  the  flying  feet, 
caught  the  excited  cry,  and  now, 
crawling  on  her  knees  to  the  door 
threw  up  her  hands  and  shrieked  aloud. 
The  water  stood  ankle-deep  among  the 
tamarisk  roots,  and  from  its  still  pool 
tiny  tongues  licked  their  way  along 
the  dry  sand. 

"The  flood  !  the  flood  !  "  The  un- 
availing cry  rang  out  as  the  women 
huddled  together  helplessly. 

"  Mai  Jewun  !  there  is  time,"  came 
the  Legacy's  eager  voice.  **  Put  the 
baby  down,  and  help.  I  saw  them  do 
it  at  Luckimpura  that  time  they  took 
the  cattle  over  the  deep  stream,  and 
Bahadur  beat  me  for  seeing  it.  Quick  ! 
quick  ! " 

Simple  enough,  yet  in  its  very  sim- 
plicity lay  their  only  chance  of  escape. 
A  string-woven  bed  buoyed  up  with 
the  bundles  of  reeds  cut  ready  for  re- 
thatching,  and  on  this  frail  raft  four 
people — nay  five  !  for  first  of  all  with 
jealous  care  Nuttia  placed  her  beloved 
Sirdar  Begum  in  safety,  wrapping  her 
up  in  the  clothes  she  discarded  in 
favour  of  free  nakedness. 

Quick  !  Quick  !  if  the  rising  ground 
is  to  be  gained  and  the  levels  beyond 
forded  ere  the  water  is  too  deep  !  Moti 
and  a  companion  yoked  by  plough- 
ropes  to  the  bed,  wade  knee-deep,  hock- 
deep,  into  the  stream,  and  now  with 
the  old,  cheerful  cry  Nuttia,  clinging 
to  their  tails  and  so  guiding  them, 
urges  the  beasts  deeper  still.  The 
stream  swirls  past  holding  them  with  it, 
though  they  breast  it  bravely.  A  log, 
long  stranded  in  some  shallow,  dances 
past,  shaving  the  raft  by  an  inch. 
Then  an  alligator,  swept  from  its 
moorings  and  casting  eyes  on  Nuttia's 
brown  legs,  makes  the  beasts  plunge 
madly.  A  rope  breaks, — the  churned 
water  sweeps  over  the  women, — the 


end  is  near, — when  another  frantic 
struggle  leaves  Moti  alone  to  her  task. 
The  high  childish  voice  calling  on  her 
favourite's  courage  rises  again  and 
again;  but  the  others,  cowed  into 
silence,  clutch  together  with  hid  faces, 
till  a  fresh  plunge  loosens  their  tongues 
once  more.  It  is  Moti  finding  foot- 
hold, and  they  are  safe — so  far. 

"  Quick !  Mai  Jewun,"  cries  Nuttia, 
as  her  companions  stand  looking  fear- 
fully over  the  waste  of  shallows  before 
them.  She  knows  from  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  ridge  they  have  reached 
that  time  is  precious.  "  We  must 
wade  while  we  can,  saving  Moti  for 
the  streams.  Take  up  the  baby,  and 
I " 

Her  hands,  busy  on  the  bed,  stilled 
themselves, — her  face  grew  gray, — 
she  turned  on  them  like  a  fury.  "  Sir- 
dar Begum  !  I  put  her  there — where 
is  Sirdar  Begum  ?  " 

"  That  bed-leg !"  shrilled  the  mother, 
tucking  up  her  petticoats  for  greater 
freedom.  "  There  was  no  room,  and 
Heart's  Delight  was  cold.  Bah  !  wood 
floats." 

''Hua-M-laira  UUa  la  r  The  herds- 
man's cry  was  the  only  answer.  Moti 
has  faced  the  flood  again,  but  this 
time  with  a  light  load,  for  the  baby 
nestling  amid  Nuttia' s  clothes  is  the 
only  occupant  of  the  frail  raft. 

"  My  son  I  My  son  I  Light  of  mine 
eyes  !  Core  of  my  heart !  Come  back  ! 
Come  back  !  " 

But  the  little  black  head  drifting 
down  stream  behind  the  big  one  never 
turned  from  its  set  purpose.  Wood 
floated,  and  so  might  babies.  Why 
not? 

Why  not,  indeed  !  But  as  a  matter 
of  fact  Mai  Jewun  was  right.  A 
dilapidated  bed-leg  was  picked  up  on  a 
sandbank  miles  away  when  the  floods 
subsided ;  and  Moti  joined  the  herd 
next  day  to  chew  the  cud  of  her  re- 
flections contentedly.  But  the  Village 
Legacy  and  Heart's  Delight  remained 
somewhere  seeking  for  something. 
That  something  doubtless  which  had 
turned  the  bed-leg  into  Sirdar  Begum. 


285 


ROMANCE  AND  YOUTH. 


A  YEAR  or  two  ago  M.  Ferdinand 
Braneti^re,  the  austere  literary  critic 
of  the  Revue  dee  Deux  MondeSi 
delivered  a  lecture  at  the  Odeon 
Theatre  upon  Moli^re*s  VEcoh  des 
Femmea,  According  to  him,  so  M. 
Lemaitre  reported,  the  comedy  turned 
upon  the  question  of  age.  Agnes  is 
sixteen  ;  Arnolphe  confesses  to  forty- 
two.  That  in  itself  is  enough  in  the 
play  to  make  Arnolphe  not  only 
ridiculous  but  odious  from  beginning 
to  end.  His  successful  rival  Horace 
is  twenty.  He  has  nothing  but  youth 
to  recommend  him  ;  nor  is  anything 
more  needed.  He  and  Agnes  have  all 
the  sympathy  of  author  and  audience. 
And  quite  right  too  1  cries  this  austere 
M.  Bruneti^re ;  it  is  a  natural  and 
sacred  law.  In  sympathising  with 
Agnes  and  Horace,  the  heart  is  sym- 
pathising with  nature  and  instinct. 

Moli^re  perhaps  does  not  make  the 
play  turn  quite  so  nakedly  on  the 
contrast  of  age  as  the  moral  requires. 
There  may  not  be  much  in  Horace's 
favour  besides  his  youth  ;  but  there  is 
a  good  deal  more  than  his  forty-two 
years  to  be  set  to  the  discredit  of 
Arnolphe.  He  is  a  system-monger 
and  an  egotist.  Now  the  egotist, 
according  to  Mr.  Meredith,  is  the 
chosen  sport  of  the  comic  spirit ;  while 
woman  (bless  her  !)  was  created  to  be 
the  bane  of  system  and  the  despair  of 
the  system-monger.  When  a  mature 
bachelor  like  Arnolphe,  in  self-conscious 
dread  of  becoming  as  one  of  the  horned 
herd  of  husbands  about  him,  captures 
a  babe  in  long  clothes  and  has  her 
mewed  up  and  artificially  trained  to 
be  a  helpmeet  for  his  special  lordship, 
then  the  imps  of  mischief  gather  in  a 
circle  on  their  haunches  to  wait  and 
watch  for  the  catastrophe.  And  if 
the  wretched  man,  after  dwarfing  the 
girl's  nature  and  bounding  her  horizon, 


demands  love  on  the  score  of  grati- 
tude, the  angels  of  heaven  join  in 
the  applause  over  his  discomfiture. 
Arnolphe' s  whole  conduct  was  unfair 
and  ignoble,  and  the  heart  of  the 
natural  man  rejoices  to  see  his  prey 
escape  him. 

Still,  whether  or  not  the  comedy 
was  exclusively  framed  to  point  this 
moral,  the  moral  is  unquestionably 
there.  Arnolphe's  forty-two  years 
count  heavily  against  him.  Litera- 
ture in  the  mouths  of  the  dramatist 
and  the  critic  is  definitely  enough  on 
the  side  of  youth  against  middle  age. 
Nor  could  spokesmen  be  selected  for 
literature  less  open  to  suspicion  of 
sentimental  bias.  As  a  critic  M. 
Bruneti6re  has  been  reproached  with 
being  too  much  of  a  schoolmaster  and 
too  little  of  a  lover.  And  as  for 
Moli^re,  he  is  the  incarnation  of  that 
spirit  of  comedy  which  is  the  arch  foe 
of  sentimentalism. 

So  much  for  the  doctrine  of  litera- 
ture ;  now  for  the  teaching  of  life. 
Shift  the  scene  from  the  French  stage 
to  the  Bow  Street  Police-Court.  A 
defendant,  aged  twenty-one,  described 
as  a  pianoforte-tuner,  is  charged  with 
being  drunk  and  disorderly  and  with 
assaulting  the  police.  The  police,  it 
appeared,  had  interfered  to  protect  a 
woman,  whom  prisoner  was  threaten- 
ing. Magistrate,  "  Who  was  the 
woman  ] "  Prisoner,  "  My  wife,  your 
worship.'*  Magistrate.  **  Your  wife  ! 
why  you  have  the  appearance  of  a  boy. 
Is  your  wife  here  ] "  She  was.  A 
little  woman  stepped  forward  and  said 
she  was  prisoner's  wife.  She  was 
nineteen.  They  had  been  married 
twelve  months.  Then  the  scandilised 
magistrate  delivered  his  soul.  "  There 
is  no  place,"  he  exclaimed,  "  where  so 
much  misery  is  seen  as  at  the  police- 
court.     There  is   no  place  to   see  so 


286 


Romance  and  YoutJw 


plainly  how  human  misery  is  produced 
by  human  folly, — not  by  bad  laws  but 
by  human  folly.  A  boy  and  girl, 
just  beyond  the  age  when  they  ought 
to  be  whipped,  go  and  get  married  ! " 

The  age  when  they  ought  to  be 
whipped !  Shades  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet !  You  see,  instead  of  applaud- 
ing a  natural  and  sacred  law  M. 
Bruneti^re  ought  to  have  laid  Horace 
and  Agnes  across  his  knee,  and 
imagined  for  a  moment  he  held  under 
his  admonitory  palm  the  prostrate 
form  of  M.  Zola.  It  is  painful  to 
think  what  would  have  been  the 
worthy  magistrate's  feelings  could  the 
precocious  babes  of  Verona  have  been 
dragged  before  his  judgment-seat. 
Indeed  if  Romeo  and  Juliet  could  be 
translated  with  their  ages  unchanged 
from  the  poetry  of  Shakespeare  into 
the  prose  of  modern  London  life,  the 
stringency  of  our  legislation  would 
make  it  awkward  for  the  lover  of  a 
lady  of  such  tender  years.  Happily 
those  immortal  types  of  youth  and 
romance,  of  passionate  and  tragic  love, 
were  not  within  the  jurisdiction. 
They  were  Italian,  Italians  of  the 
Renascence;  and  Italians  have  a 
large  license  in  these  matters.  It  is 
the  naughty  sun,  as  Byron  explains, 
and  the  naughtier  moon.  Sun  and 
race  make  a  deal  of  difference. 
Readers  of  this  magazine  will  re- 
member the  Indian  girl  in  Mr. 
Kipling's  beautiful  story.  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy,  and  her  rebellious 
jealousy  of  the  protracted  youth  of  the 
**  white  memloy,^^  her  rivals. 

Perhaps  the  sun  of  Italy  is  indirectly 
answerable  for  the  tender  age  of  the 
lovers  and  their  lasses  in  much  of 
English  poetry  and  romance.  Our 
poets  and  romancers  were  so  long 
under  the  influence  of  Italy  and  the 
Renascence.  From  the  time  that 
Chaucer  transferred  his  allegiance 
from  French  to  Italian  models,  down 
till  the  prestige  of  the  grand  aiecle  and 
Charles  II. 's  connection  with  the  court 
of  Louis  XIV.  reimposed  a  French 
model,  Italy  set  our  literary  fashion. 
The  un-English  horrors  of  the  tragedy 


of  Webster  and  the  like  are  but  a  re- 
flection of  the  Italy  of  the  Sforzas  and 
Borgias.  Boccaccio  and  Bandello  were 
our  models  for  story-telling.  With 
the  form  of  the  sonnet  we  imported 
from  Italy  the  spirit  and  features  of 
Italian  sonneteering.  Italian  Juliets 
were  imported  into  English  poetry  and 
romance  without  being  made  to  pay 
the  duty  of  added  years  to  a  northern 
climate.  What  in  Italy  had  been 
nature  became  in  England  a  piece  of 
literary  convention.  The  Elizabethan 
sonneteer,  if  he  was  not  chanting  the 
mature  divinity  of  the  Virgin  Queen, 
would  proclaim  his  devotion  to  some 
lady-love  of  traditional  immaturity. 
At  Juliet's  age,  the  English  miss  is 
apt,  as  Byron  brutally  said,  to  smell 
of  bread  and  butter.  No  sober  Briton 
nowadays  toasts  the  maiden  of  blush- 
ing fifteen, — at  least  not  within  ear- 
shot of  the  police.  Charles  Surface 
and  his  friends  were  not  a  particularly 
sober  crew ;  but  in  these  days  Joseph 
Surface  would  belong  to  a  Vigilance 
Society  and  there  might  be  the  devil 
to  pay.  It  is  absolutely  incomprehen- 
sible how  Robert  Browning,  of  all  men 
in  the  world,  should  have  come  to 
make  Mildred  Tresham  only  fourteen 
years  of  age  when  she  brought  the 
blot  on  the  'scutcheon.  Dr.  Furnivall 
really  should  have  seen  to  this.  Evelyn 
Hope  was  sixteen  years  old  when  she 
died,  and  the  man  of  forty-eight  who 
loved  her,  confessed  that  it  was  not 
"her  time  to  love,"  and  that  only 
somewhere  in  the  seventh  heaven  could 
he  look  for  any  return. 

It  is  true  that  to  redress  the  balance 
romance  has  some  mature  heroines  to 
set  in  the  opposite  scale.  To  begin 
with,  there  is  Helen  of  Troy  herself, 
the  arch-heroine  of  romance.  Her 
love  affairs  began  early  enough  no 
doubt,  early  enough  to  satisfy  Mr. 
Browning.  She  was  a  mere  child 
when  Theseus  ran  away  with  her. 
But  by  a  shameless  statistical  enquiry, 
by  reckoning  up  the  episodes  of  her 
youth,  and  by  comparing  the  date  of 
the  Argonautic  expedition,  in  which 
her  brothers  took  part,  with  the  date 


Romance  and  Youth. 


287 


of  the  Trojan  war,  the  unconscionable 
Eayle   proved   to   his   own   ungentle- 
manly   satisfaction   that    Helen    was 
fifty,  more  or  less,  when  Paris  carried 
her  ofE  in  triumph  to  Troy.      Well, 
then  the  war  lasted  ten  years  ;  and  at 
the  end  of  it,  not  only  was  Menelaus 
legitimately  proud   to   get   her    back 
iigain,  but  her  beauty  was  so  potent 
still    that  Priam  forgot   and  forgave 
in  his  pride  of  it  all  the  woes  it  had 
brought  on  him  and  his,  and  paid  bis 
tribute  of  kingly  courtesy  to  her  un- 
abdicated  grace  of  womanhood.     Nay, 
ten  years  later  again,  when  Telema- 
chus  visited  the  Spartan  court  in  quest 
of  news  of  his  many-wiled  and  much- 
wanted    father,    Helen    was    a    fine 
woman  still,  though  at  that  time,  by 
Bayle's  iniquitous  calculations,  no  less 
than  seventy  years  of  age.     No  doubt 
her  race  and  lineage  must  be  borne  in 
mind.     There  is  an  elderly  aristocratic 
couple  in  one  of  Disraeli's  novels,  or 
in  one  of  the  parodies  of  his  novels — 
it  is  difficult  sometimes  to  remember 
with  Disraeli  which  is  text  and  which 
is    parody — who     might     have    been 
taken,    so  pure   was  their   blood   and 
so    perfect    their  breeding,   for  their 
oldest  son  and  daughter's  eldest  son 
and   daughter.     Helen's    lineage   was 
more  than  aristocratic  ;  it  was  divine. 
Daughter  of  Zeus  and  Leda,  sister  of 
Castor  and    Pollux,  she   had    in   her 
veins  the    eternal  ichor  of  the  gods. 
That  of  course  made  a  difference.     In- 
deed Bayle  takes  credit  for  the  modera- 
tion of  his  estimate,  and  hints  that 
some  would  make  her  out  to  be   at 
least  a  hundred.     But  why  do  I  linger 
over  the  ungallant  gossip  of  this  dic- 
tionary-making     sceptic  ?      Was      it 
worthy  of  a  Frenchman  to  canvass  the 
age  of  the  liege-lady  of  all  lovers  of 
romance  ?     Was  it  worthy  of  the  cau- 
tion of  a  scientific  sceptic  to  clutch  at 
the  conjectural  chronology  of  mytho- 
logical fancy  % 

If  you  listen  to  some  of  the  gossips 
by  the  way,  you  would  believe  that 
Iphigenia  was  not  Agamemnon's 
daughter,  but  the  daughter  of  Helen 
and  Theseus.   That  would  make  Helen 


under  thirty  (would  it  not  ? )  when  she 
eloped  with  Paris.  It  adds  fresh 
cruelty  to  the  curse  that  blasted 
Iphigenia's  youth,  to  think  that  it  was 
her  own  mother  that  was  the  cause. 
But  she  would  not  be  the  last  daughter 
who  has  been  sacrificed  to  a  mother's 
flirtation. 

If  Helen  had  a  grown-up  daughter 
when  her  face  was  the  fate  of  nations, 
Penelope  had  a  grown-up  son  when 
the  stress  of  rivalry  for  her  hand  was 
at  its  keenest.  The  suitors  very  likely 
had  set  their  hearts  at  least  as  much 
upon  the  estate  as  on  the  person  of 
this  paragon  of  prehistoric  grass- 
widowhood.  That  is  what  cynicism 
would  suggest,  and  there  was  not  a 
little  in  the  conduct  of  the  suitors  to 
give  colour  to  the  suggestion.  Yet 
Homer  hardly  gives  us  to  understand 
that  Penelope  was  past  the  prime  of 
her  beauty.  Nor  did  scandal  spare 
even  her  name.  The  good  Homer 
gave  no  countenance  to  it,  or  it  would 
have  put  a  very  distressing  complexion 
on  the  pretty  story  of  the  woven  and 
unwoven  web.  One  version  of  the 
birth  of  Pan,  remember,  was  that  he 
was  born  of  Penelope  in  her  lord's  ab- 
sence, and  that  no  single  suitor  could 
claim  the  whole  credit  of  the 
paternity. 

Pass  from  romance  of  legend  to 
romance  of  history.  The  wedded 
names  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  re- 
main hardly  less  than  Tristram  and 
Iseult  the  very  symbol  of  love's  lord- 
ship. Now  Cleopatra  was  twenty-one 
when  first  she  met  "  broad-fronted 
Caesar,"  and  was  twenty-five  before  the 
thoughtful  knife  of  Brutus  cut  the 
liaison  short.  Yet  these  were  the 
green  and  salad  days  whereof  Shake- 
speare makQs  her  spnak  so  scornfully. 
When  she  captivated  Mark  Antony 
she  was  twenty-eight,  and  she  held 
him  her  slave  for  eleven  whole  years  ; 
so  that  when  **  by  the  aspick's  bite  " 
she  "  died  a  queen,"  absolute  queen  of 
him  still  soul  and  seuse,  she  was  of 
the  unromantic  age  of  thirty-nine.  I 
named  Iseult.  A  learned  friend  of 
mine  has  unearthed  her  epitaph  from 


288 


Romance  and  Youth, 


an  old  Italian  book,  whereby  it  ap- 
pears she  was  thirty-one  at  the  time 
when  she  fell  stricken  to  death  on 
Tristram's  corpse. 

So,  you  see,  it  was  no  such  revolu- 
tionary innovation,  no  such  Copernican 
discovery  for  romance,  when  Balzac 
made  his  much  vaunted  "  woman  of 
thirty "  the  centre  of  the  system  of 
his  human  comedy.  The  usually  un- 
sympathetic Ste.  Beuve  might  trumpet 
the  achievement,  and  talk  of  these 
women  of  thirty  waiting  dumb  and 
expectant  for  their  discoverer,  and  of 
the  electric  flash  when  they  met.  But 
really  she  is  an  old  friend  in  romance, 
this  woman  of  thirty  !  Nor  did 
Charles  de  Bernard  do  any  new  thing 
when  he  bettered  his  master  and  gave 
the  world  his  "  woman  of  forty."  Kor 
did  Thackeray,  when,  by  one  of  the 
boldest  strokes  in  fiction,  he  made 
Harry  Esmond  turn  from  Beatrix  to 
her  mother  Lady  Castle  wood.  Diane 
de  Poitiers  was  forty-eight  when 
Henry  II.  of  France  was  twenty-nine. 
The  young  King  surrendered  at  dis- 
cretion to  his  enchantress,  and  gave 
her  his  country,  himself,  ay  and  his 
queen  too,  to  do  what  she  would  with. 
8he  held  her  sway  without  check  or 
wane  to  the  end.  She  was  seventy 
when  Brant6me  saw  her,  and  she  was, 
he  says,  as  fair  and  fresh  and  lovable 
as  at  thirty.  Posterity,  said  Paul  de 
St.  Victor  prettily,  still  looks  at  Diane 
through  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Henry  ; 
and  we  picture  her  always,  in  spite  of 
her  really  venerable  age,  as  the  artists 
of  the  Renascence  immortalised  her, 
in  the  form  of  Jean  Goujon's  goddesses 
or  Cellini's  nymph. 

Then  there  is  the  famous  case  of  Ninon 
de  TEnclos.  If  Ninon  was  only  thirty 
when  she  carried  off  captive  Madame 
de  Sevign6's  husband,  she  was  full 
fifty-five  when  a  generation  later  she 
took  captive  the  same  Madame  de 
Sevigne's  son.  And  so  far  as  the 
willingness  of  the  spirit  went,  she 
would  no  doubt  have  carried  her  con- 
quests into  the  third  generation,  but 
that  the  Marquis  de  Grignan,  Madame 
de    Sevigne's    grandson,    was    barely 


fifteen  when  she  was  seventy — the- 
three-score  years  and  ten  assigned  by 
the  preacher  as  the  limits  of  life,  not- 
of  love.  Like  Emma  Bovary,  Ninon 
kept  her  last  kiss  for  the  cross ;  she- 
devoted  to  religion  the  last  two  or 
three  of  the  eighty- nine  years  allotted 
to  her  as  the  span  of  her  earthly 
pilgrimage. 

I  have  been  led  far  afield  by  my 
dream  of  fair  women, — even  the  census- 
taker  has  his  dreams,  though  it  is  his 
invidious  duty  to  ask  the  ladies'  ages. 
I  was  thinking  rather  of  the  heroes- 
than  of  the  heroines  of  romance  when 
I  started  with  the  contrast  between 
the  views  of  the  police-magistrate  and 
the  literary  critic.  As  to  the  age  of 
romance  for  girls  there  is  no  great 
discrepancy  between  the  ideas  ex- 
pressed in  literature  and  those  enter- 
tained in  life.  Our  Psyches  are  still 
girls,  if  our  Cupids  begin  to  wax  fat 
and  forty.  Neither  the  tragic  child- 
hood of  Mildred  Tresham  nor  the- 
triumphant  old  age  of  Ninon  de 
I'Enclos  is  normal  in  life  or  books. 
Nor,  in  spite  of  Ste.  Beuve  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  later  and  lesser  critics^ 
is  Balzac's  woman  of  thirty  a  normal 
subject  of  romance.  She  was  bredi 
partly  of  Balzac's  idiosyncracy,  partly 
of  his  pride  of  originality,  partly  of 
artificial  social  conditions.  The  baby's 
grandmother  in  Mrs.  Walford's  amus- 
ing novel  was  not  regarded  by  her 
neighbours  as  a  normal  case,  least  of 
all  by  the  baby's  very  conventional 
parents.  It  is  significant,  as  M. 
Lemaitre  has  observed,  that  Moli^re's 
Agnes  is  still  made  up  on  the  modem 
stage  to  look  sixteen  or  thereabouts  > 
whereas  the  actor  who  plays  Arnolphe 
to  produce  the  proper  effect  is  bound 
to  add,  and  in  fact  always  does  add,  a- 
very  considerable  number  of  years  to* 
the  forty-two  Moli^re  gave  him.  To 
a  modern  audience  a  prospective  hus- 
band of  forty-two  would  appear  at- 
least  as  natural  as  a  prospective  hus- 
band of  twenty.  And  if  in  life  the- 
man  of  forty-two  is  not  such  a  terror 
to  the  girls  as  he  was  in  the  old 
comedy,   so    neither   is   the  youth  of 


Romance  and  Y&itth, 


289 


twenty    such   a   hero.     What    strikes 
one  in  the  old-fashioned  stories  is  the 
extraordinary  capacities  of  the  hero  of 
twenty.     There  is  hardly  anything  he 
cannot  do.   In  peace  and  war,  in  policy 
and  passion,  he  is  equal  to  all  emer- 
gencies.     In    reality    the    youth    of 
twenty  is  not  of  much  account.     The 
girls  snub  him  ;  his  college  gates  him  ; 
nobody  but  his  tailor  trusts  him  much. 
The  pianoforte-tuner  was  twenty-one, 
and  a  gentleman  with  judicial  experi- 
ences of    life   and   humanity  regards 
him  as  a  boy  just  beyond  the  age  when 
he  ought  to  be  whipped.     The  young 
Duke  of  Orleans  was  of  the  full  heroic 
age  of  twenty-one  when  he  sought  to 
take  his  place  in  the  ranks  and  was 
put    in    prison    for    his   pains  ;    and 
whether  for  sympathy  or  sarcasm  the 
world  was  agreed  in  treating  his  ex- 
ploit as  the  prank  of  a  school- boy.   At 
the  Bar  men   are  still  rising  juniors 
with   grey   hair    or    bald   head.      In 
politics  Mr.   Chamberlain  is  a  young 
man,  Mr.  Balfour  is  almost  a  boy,  Mr. 
Curzon  is  positively  an  infant,  though 
no  doubt  a  precocious  infant.     Used 
men  to  ripen  earlier,  or  was  the  world's 
work  simpler  1     Or  has  romance  been 
at  her  tricks,  and  have  we  here  an- 
other of  those  grievous  discrepancies 
between  fact  and  old-fashioned  fiction, 
which  make  Mr.    Howells  to   go    so 
heavily  1 

Old  Montaigne  did  actually  fix  the 
age  of  full  maturity  at  twenty.  Like 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  he  was  a  believer  in 
youth.  Even  at  his  epoch  he  thought 
men  ought  to  set  about  the  world's 
work  earlier  than  they  did.  **  For  my 
part  "  (I  quote  the  quaint  phrases  of 
John  Florio's  translation  which  Shake- 
speare used)  "  I  think  that  our  minds 
.ire  as  full  grown  and  perfectly  jointed 
;it  twenty  years  as  they  shall  be,  and 
promise  as  much  as  they  can.  A  mind 
which  at  that  age  hath  not  given  some 
evident  token  or  earnest  of  her  suffi- 
ciency, shall  hardly  give  it  afterward, 
put  her  to  what  trial  you  list.  Natural 
<inalities  and  virtues,  if  they  have  any 
vigorous  or  beauteous  thing  in  them, 
will  produce  and  show  the  same  within 

No.  388. — VOL.  Lxv. 


that  time  or  never."  Yet  even  with 
him  twenty  is  the  age  rather  of  pro- 
mise than  performance,  and  when  the 
talk  is  of  actions  he  raises  his  limit  to 
thirty.  "Of  all  humane,  honourable, 
and  glorious  actions  that  ever  came 
into  my  knowledge,  I  am  persuaded  I 
should  have  a  harder  task  to  number 
those  which  both  in  ancient  times  and 
in  our  own  have  been  produced  and 
achieved  before  the  age  of  thirty  years 
than  such  as  were  performed  after. 
Yea,  often  in  the  life  of  the  same  men." 
Yet  the  only  cases  he  cites  are  Hanni- 
bal, and  his  "  great  adversary,"  Scipio. 
"  Both  lived,"  says  Montaigne,  "  the 
better  part  of  their  life  with  the  glory 
which  they  had  gotten  in  their  youth  ; 
and  though  afterward  they  were  great 
men  in  respect  of  all  others,  yet  were 
they  but  mean  in  regard  of  themselves." 
Ultima  79Wwii5  cedebcmt  was  Livy's 
sentence  on  Scipio.  Hannibal  was 
twenty-nine  when  he  invaded  Italy. 
Scipio  was  thirty-two  at  Zama,  but 
that  was  only  the  crowning  victory  of 
his  second  or  third  campaign ;  he  had 
saved  his  father's  life  in  a  battle  at 
the  age  of  sixteen,  and  at  eighteen  he 
fought  on  the  fatal  field  cf  Cannae. 

Bacon,  who  was  inclined  to  agree 
with  Montaigne  as  to  the  advantage 
of  youth,  does  not  add  many  instances. 
He  quotes  Cosimo  who  was  appointed 
Duke  of  Florence  in  1573  at  the  age 
of  seventeen  and  proved  an  able  ruler ; 
also  a  certain  Gaston  de  Foix.  Ac- 
cording to  Bacon's  last  editor,  this  was 
probably  a  Viscount  de  B6arn,  born  in 
1331,  who  served  with  distinction  at 
the  age  of  fourteen  in  military  and 
then  in  civil  business,  and  was  de- 
scribed in  his  later  years  by  Froissart 
as  a  pattern  of  chivalry.  Cosimo 
governed  a  wily  and  turbulent  popula- 
tion at  seventeen,  and  Augustus  Caesar 
by  his  brain  and  by  his  arm  was 
master  of  the  world  at  nineteen.  Mon- 
taigne thought  it  an  anomaly  that  the 
same  Augustus,  **  That  had  been  uni- 
versal and  supreme  judge  of  the  world 
when  he  was  but  nineteen  years  old, 
would  by  his  laws  have  another  to  be 
thirty  before  he   should    be    made   a 

u 


290 


Komance  ami  Yoittk. 


competent  judge  of  a  cottage  or  farm." 
But  Augustus  Caesar  was  an  exception- 
ally wise  youth.  And  yet, — perhaps 
because,  as  Lady  Blandish  hinted, 
Love  does  not  love  exceptionally  wise 
youths, — Cleopatra,  who  was  an  expert 
in  love,  would  have  none  of  him  as  a 
lover.  Our  own  Pitt,  who,  as  we  are 
so  often  reminded,  was  a  minister  at 
twenty-three,  as  a  lover  cut  no  figure 
at  all. 

How  came  Montaigne  and  Bacon  to 
leave  out  Alexander]  Early  in  his 
twenties  he  had  added  the  conquest 
of  Asia  to  the  conquest  of  Greece. 
Before  he  died  at  thirty-two  he  had 
married  three  wives,  and  sighed  for 
more  worlds  to  conquer ;  and  besides 
his  unparalleled  achievement,  he  was 
as  beautiful  as  a  god,  if  the  sculptors 
are  bo  be  trusted.  He  might  perhaps 
have  put  his  youth  to  better  purpose 
than  to  running  after  Thais  and  set- 
ting fire  to  Persepolis,  but  his  marriage 
with  the  fair  Roxana,  the  captive  of 
his  bow  and  spear,  was  after  the  most 
orthodox  romantic  pattern.  Then 
there  was  the  great  Cond6.  Michelet 
says  he  was  ill-favoured ;  I  have  a 
portrait  which  makes  him  fine-look- 
ing. But  any  way  was  not  the  con- 
queror of  Erocroi  at  twenty-two  a  hero 
to  fire  a  girl's  imagination  1  And  any 
woman,  in  romance  or  out  of  it,  might 
have  been  proud  to  have  had  for  lover 
the  famous  Due  de  La  Rochefoucauld, 
with  his  youth,  his  handsome  face,  his 
clever  tongue,  and  his  reckless  bravery. 
Indeed,  as  a  matter  of  history,  a 
gracious  line  of  remarkable  women 
were  proud  to  have  him  for  their 
lover. 

But  these  men  were  exceptions. 
They  only  prove  the  rule.  And  if  I  ran- 
sacked history  for  more  instances  they 
would  be  exceptions  still.  The  normal 
youth  of  twenty  is  not  at  all  the 
omnipotent  person  that  the  fancy  of 
romance  has  painted  him.  Accordingly, 
when  the  novelists  took  to  copying 
life  instead  of  correcting  it,  they 
came  round  to  the  magistrate's  way  of 
thinking,  and  the  age  of  the  hero  went 
up.      1    imagine    that    the    hero    of 


twenty  is  an  exception  in  the  ordinary 
modern  novel  of  ordinary  life.     Poor 
Pendennis  at  twenty  was  very  little  of 
a  hero.     He  may  fall  in  love  with  a 
Fotheringay,  but  a  Fotheringay  will 
hardly  be  so  weak  as  to  fall  in  love 
with  him.     If  a  Laura  love  him,  she 
will  wait  and  watch  for  him  to  grow 
into    a    man.     Miss  Ethel   Kewcome 
will  flirt  with  Clive  with  a  light  heart, 
but  could  she  be  expected  to  think  of 
the    boy  seriously]      Jane    Austen's 
Emma,  who  thoroughly  knew  her  way 
about  in    match-making,  surrendered 
her  heart  to  the  safe  keeping  of  thirty- 
eight — such  was  the  sober  age  of  the 
admirable    Knightly.      Jane     Eyre's 
Bochester  was  certainly  no  chicken. 
If    you    were    to    apply   the    brutal 
methods  of  Bayle  to  Ouida's  Tricotrin, 
I  believe  (though  I  have  never  worked 
it  out  myself,  being  a  poor  hand  at 
figures)  that  it  would  turn  out  that 
Tricotrin  had  attained  the  respectable 
age    of  seventy  or   eighty,  when    he 
cheats  us  of  our  tears  by  his  apparently 
premature    death   at    the  barricades. 
Miss    Broughton's    magnificent   ugly 
men    are    eminently    mature.     They 
are  scarred  and  seamed  with  experi- 
ences like  Milton's   Satan.      And  (to 
the  no  small  surprise  of  some  of  the 
clever    novelist's   sincerest   admirers) 
Mi^s  Broughton  has  been  ranked  high 
among  English  realists  by  no  less   & 
critic  than  M.  Bruneti^re,  and.  held  up 
as  a    pattern    to  certain  of    his  own 
countrymen  who  make  a  great  cry  of 
their  realism — and  no  little  wool. 

Ah,  Moli^re  might  say,  this  may 
be  life,  but  it  is  not  nature.  M. 
Bruneti^re  reiterates  his  point.  He 
argues  in  his  new  volume  of  Critical 
Essays  on  the  History  of  French  Litera- 
ture that  Moli^re's  moral  was  always 
for  a  return  to  nature  from  unnatuiul 
convention ;  from  conventional  and 
unnatural  marriage,  social  fashions^ 
morality,  religion.  Well,  what  pre- 
cisely is  meant  by  nature  1  There  is. 
an  obvious  truth  and  a  number  of 
unobvious  fallacies  in  the  ordinary 
distinction  between  nature  and  civil- 
isation.    A    philosopher,    whom     M.. 


Eoma7tce  and  Youth. 


291 


Bruneti^re  knows  a  great  deal  better 
than  I  do,  taught  long  ago  once  for  all 
that  it  is  man's  nature  to  be  civilised; 
and  the  sentiments  and  usages  of 
civilisation — as  I  think  M.  Lemaitre 
has  urged  in  answer  toM.  Bruneti^re — 
mould  and  control  even  the  instinctive 
impulses  of  love  and  passion.  Where 
in  history  would  Moli^re  find  his 
golden  age  or  state  of  nature  wherein 
the  girls  of  sixteen  fall  in  love  only 
with  the  boys  of  twenty?  Nausicaa's 
girl's  heart  was  given  almost  at  first 
sight  to  the  middle-aged  and  much 
enduring  hero,  who  had  a  wife  and 
grown-up  son  and  several  other  things 
awaiting  him  at  home.  It  is  one  of 
the  oldest  and  prettiest  love  stories  in 
the  world.  And  if  you  think  that 
Ulysses  got  some  unfair  advantage 
from  the  grace  that  Athena  shed 
about  his  head  and  shoulders,  when 
the  maidens  looked  the  other  way  and 
he  made  his  toilet  on  the  sea-shore, 
what  do  you  say  to  the  case  of 
Desdemona  and  her  Moorl  And  if 
Shakespeare's  word  is  not  evidence, 
what  do  you  say  of  Vanessa  and  Swift  % 
A  girl's  instinct,  according  to  Mr. 
Meredith,  who  is  notoriously  (so  say 
his  disciples)  in  the  secrets  of  the  sex, 
is  for  strength.  This  is,  no  doubt,  a 
survival  from  the  old-fashioned  days 
when  women  used  to  look  to  men  as 
their  protectors  and  defenders.  Well, 
strength  is  displayed  in  different  ways 
in  different  ages  and  societies.  So  far 
as  feats  of  chivalry  went  and  Homeric 
derring-do,  there  was  no  particular 
reason  perhaps  why  a  youth  should  not 
be  a  hero  so  soon  as  his  muscle  was  set. 
It  has  often  struck  me,  in  reading  the 
Iliad,  that  the  Trojan  War  was  far 
liker  to  a  series  of  football  matches 
than  to  modern  warfare.  On  the  half- 
holidays,  so  to  speak,  when  the  weather 
was  fine,  the  Greeks  and  Trojans 
would  turn  out  for  a  match  on  the 
ringing  plains,  while  the  old  boys 
looked  on  from  the  walls  and  the 
ships.  Our  play-grounds  and  hunting- 
fields  could  show  almost  as  good  a 
record  of  damages  to  life  and  limb  as 
was  suffered  by  the  heroes  in  many 


an  Homeric  combat  or  medieval 
tourney.  But  if  the  girl's  instinct  is 
for  a  man  strong  in  her  particular 
sphere — political,  intellectual,  or  social ; 
if  her  hero  is  to  be  a  man  among  men 
in  complex  stages  of  society,  she  must 
put  up  with  a  lover  of  a  certain  age. 

So  much  the  worse  for  civilisation, 
Moli^re  might  insist.  It  is  nature 
that  speaks  in  the  poetry  and  ro- 
mance of  the  love  of  boy  and  girl. 
It  is  nature  that  speaks  in  the 
spectator's  instinctive  sympathy  with 
the  young  lovers  in  the  comedies. 
It  is  a  natural  and  sacred  law  that 
youth  should  love  youth.  When 
civilisation  puts  youth  and  youth 
asunder,  man  is  dividing  what 
nature  would  join.  And  if  history 
can  produce  no  such  golden  age  or 
state  of  nature  an  appeal  might  be 
made  to  the  customs  of  the  proletariat. 
The  very  name  proletariat  is  warrant 
enough.  Undistracted  by  conventional 
ambitions  and  undeterred  by  conven- 
tional scruples  the  proletariat  increases 
and  multiplies  at  an  age  which  makes 
magistrates  and  Malthusians,  econo- 
mists and  the  guardians  of  the  poor, 
tear  their  hair  in  dismay  and  indig- 
nation. And  George  Sand  might  be 
called  to  support  the  appeal.  George 
Sand,  of  all  women,  could  for  opposite 
reasons  have  had  no  prejudices  in 
favour  of  immaturity  in  marriage  or 
love.  Yet  when  she  turned  to  study 
the  country  people  about  her  at  No- 
hant  and  to  portray  it  in  those  charm- 
ing village  tales  she  wrote  towards 
the  close  of  her  full-blooded  career, 
the  popular  sentiment  therein  is  defi- 
nitely, not  to  say  despotically,  on  M. 
Bruneti^re's  side.  **  Germain,"  says 
Maurice  to  his  son-in-law,  in  La  Ma/re 
au  Diahh,  "  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  to  take  another  wife.  It  is 
two  years  since  my  daughter  died, 
and  your  eldest  boy  is  seven.  You 
are  going  on  for  thirty,  and  after  that 
a  man  is  too  old  to  marry.'*  And 
then  he  proceeds  to  recommend  Ger- 
main not  to  think  of  a  young  girl,  but 
to  look  out  for  a  seasoned  widow  of 
his  own  years.      Germain  in  fact  was 

u  2 


292 


Romance  and  Youth. 


only  twenty-eight ;  but  he  regarded 
himself,  and  was  generally  regarded 
by  his  neighbours,  as  too  old  to  be  the 
husband  of  a  young  girl.  So  when  he 
fell  in  love  with  Marie,  who  was  six- 
teen, he  did  not  dare  to  tell  her  of 
his  feelings ;  and  when  he  married 
her,  it  was  something  of  a  scandal  in 
the  country-side. 

Then  Dickens,  again.  How  Dickens 
loved  to  watch  the  boys  and  girls  fall- 
ing in  love  and  marrying  !  Think  of 
Tommy  Traddles,  defiant  of  conven- 
tionality, triumphantly  playing  Puss 
in  the  Corner  with  his  five  sisters- 
in-law  in  his  business  chambers 
at  Gray's  Inn ;  or  of  Scrooge's 
nephew  and  Scrooge's  niece  by  mar- 
riage and  Scrooge's  niece's  sisters  at 
the  ghostly  Christmas  party,  and  the 
shameless  way  Topper  followed  up  the 
plump  sister  with  the  lace  tucker  at 
the  game  of  Blind  Man's  Buff.  "  Why 
did  you  get  married  ] "  Scrooge  had 
asked  his  nephew  on  the  Christmas 
Eve  in  return  for  his  Christmas  greet- 
ings. "  Because  I  fell  in  love."  "  Be- 
cause you  fell  in  love ! "  growled 
Scrooge,  as  if  that  were  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  more  ridiculous 
than  a  merry  Christmas.  Ebenezer 
Scrooge,  you  may  remember,  boasted 
that  he  helped  to  support  the  institu- 
tions of  civilisation,  the  prison  and 
the  workhouse ;  and  if  the  boys  and 
girls  must  marry,  and  then  when 
want  came  would  rather  die  than 
take  advantage  of  these  institutions, 
— well,  they  had  better  die,  he 
said,  and  decrease  the  surplus  popula- 
tion. Or  take  Bleak  House  ;  the  Court 
of  Chancery  and  the  great  case  of 
Jarndyce  against  Jarndyce, — there 
you  have,  no  doubt,  a  triumph  of 
civilisation ;  but  Richard  Carton  and 
Ada,  with  their  young  love,  had 
nature  on  their  side.  Richard  con- 
fessed upon  his  deathbed  that  he  had 
wedded  his  girl-wife  to  want,  and  that 
he  had  the  world  still  to  begin.  Yet 
they  had  their  reward. 

Let  us  consult  ope  more  authority. 
Sir  Anthony  Absworthy  Bearne 
Feverel,  Baronet,  of  Raynham  Abbey, 
had,  like  our  worthy  magistrate,  medi- 


tated deeply  upon  life  and  marriage. 
He  brought  up  his  son  Richard  on  a 
system;  and  meant  to  marry  him  by 
system  at  the  age  of  twenty-five. 
Unfortunately  when  this  scientific  hu- 
manist was  away  consulting  family 
physicians  and  lawyers  about  a  help- 
meet for  his  peerless  son,  the  magnetic 
youth  sculling  down  the  river  had  his 
vision  of  the  magnetic  maiden;  and 
nature  speaking  in  his  bosom  less  sen- 
tentiously  than  the  baronet  he 
straightway  took  his  part  in  one  of 
the  prettiest  love-scenes  in  literature. 
Richard  was  only  eighteen,  Lucy  was 
a  year  younger ;  about  the  age 
when  they  ought  to  have  been 
whipped.  So  precisely  thought  Adrian 
Harley,  the  wise  youth.  But  when 
the  wise  youth  and  the  scientific 
humanist  fought  romance  with  civil- 
isation, misery  came  of  it.  Mr. 
Meredith  is  no  sentimentalist,  he  is 
indeed  our  scourge  for  sentimentalists  ; 
yet  his  heart  is  surely  all  with 
Richard  and  Lucy.  Which  is  right  % 
Richard  Feverel  or  the  Wise  Youth  % 
Moli^re  or  the  Magistrate  1  Romance 
or  Civilisation  % 

Well,  suppose  for  a  crooked  answer 
to  a  cross  question  we  betake  ourselves 
to  the  lavish  oracle  of  Bulwer  Lytton. 
Bulwer  wrote  Pelham  when  he  was 
twenty-two ;  and  he  represented 
Pelham  as  dominating  a  brilliiant  and 
cynical  society  when  he  had  but 
barely  left  college.  He  wrote  Dever- 
eux  the  year  after ;  and  Devereux 
concludes  the  history  of  his  life  at 
thirty-four  with  the  confession  that 
love  was  for  him  a  thing  of  the  past. 
It  was  twelve  years  later  before  Ernest 
Maltravers  and  its  sequel  Alice  were 
finished  ;  and  the  reader  might  gather 
from  those  romances  that  though 
eighteen  may  be  the  age  of  folly  and 
passion,  the  age  for  true  heroism  is 
thirty-six.  Later,  Lytton  took  refuge 
in  the  old  romantic  device  of  an  elixir 
of  perpetual  youth. — At  whatever  age 
one  finds  one's  self,  to  be  persuaded  that 
tliat  is  the  age  of  romance,  is  not  this 
the  true  elixir  of  perpetual  youth  ? 

W.  P.  J. 


293 


THE     FLIGHT     FROM    THE     FIELDS. 


We  are  taught  that  one  of  the  two 
serious  blots  on  King  David's    scut- 
cheon is  due  to  his  having  insisted  on 
numbering  the  people.     Viewed  by  the 
light  of  modern  experience  the  offence 
seems   so   venial    that   the   expiatory 
sacrifice  which  it  entailed,   of  seventy 
thousand  lives,  is  at  first  sight  wholly 
repugnant  to  our  sense  of   just  pro- 
portion.    Fortunately,  however,  it  is 
not   for  us  to    determine  in  this  case 
the  balance   between   the   crime   and 
its  penalty  ;  enough  that  in  our  own 
century    we   have    been    suffered    to 
follow   with    apparent   impunity    the 
example  set  by  the  Israelitish  monarch 
with    such   disastrous    results   to    his 
nation.     Perhaps,  as  some  commenta- 
tors suggest,   it  was   a   mere   bit   of 
braggadocio  on  his  part,  or  was  under- 
taken with  an  eye  to  increased  taxa- 
tion.    Wliatever  his  motive,  we  may 
be  certain  that  he  was  influenced  by 
no  considerations  equal  in  purity  and 
benevolence  to  those  which  prompt  the 
decennial  enumerations  of  the  present 
age.     It  is  not  indeed  very  easy  to  set 
down   in   strictly   definite   terms  the 
precise  value   of    our  own  periodical 
census.     We  cannot  alter  the  total  at 
which  we  so  laboriously  arrive,  or  by 
a  stroke  of  the  pen  diminish  the  evils 
and    hardships   incident   to   a   steady 
growth  of  population.     Malthus  him- 
self   with   all    his    doctrines    cannot 
avail  to  check  the  glut  of  humanity. 
But   at  least   we   are   free  from  the 
imputation  of  a  sinister  aim.      If  by 
our  numbering  we  effect  no  practical 
good,  at  any  rate  we  do  no  appreciable 
harm ;   nay,  we  may  even  cheer   the 
dreary  life  of  the  statistician  by  pro- 
viding him  from  time  to   time   with 
new  tables  for  consultation  and  com- 
parison,  while   to    the    commonplace 
philosopher  we   open   a  perfect   mine 
of  innocent  speculation.     How  are  all 


these  gaping  mouths  to  be  filled  ? 
How  will  it  fare  a  few  years  hence 
with  professions  in  which  even  now 
there  is  barely  standing-room  ? 
Where  are  we  all  to  live,  where  to  be 
buried?  The  fittest,  no  doubt,  will 
continue  to  survive,  and  the  world's 
motto  will  remain,  as  heretofore,  "  The 
Devil  take  the  hindmost "  ;  but,  fit 
or  unfit,  we  must  all  in  our  bodily 
shape  be  somehow  disposed  of,  and 
cremation  will  not  become  popular  for 
many  a  long  day.  There  is  no  end  to 
the  problems  of  this  kind  that  a  re- 
flective mind  can  set  itself,  and  the 
solutions  may  be  whatever  we  please. 
These  things  lie  on  the  knees  of  the 
gods. 

But  it  is  the  primary  business  of  a 
census  to  reveal  facts  rather  than  to 
promote  theories.    And  one  interesting 
fact  which  at  the  close  of  each  decade 
asserts  itself  with  growing  emphasis 
is  this  :  that  the  country  is  becoming 
gradually  deserted   in  favour  of   the 
town.     This  Flight   from  the  Fields, 
as  we  may  call  it,  is  no  new  pheno- 
menon.    The  earliest  symptoms  of  it 
appeared  with  the  abolition  of    serf- 
dom, and  led  in  the  year  1351  to  that 
rigorous  enactment  known  to  history 
as  the  Statute  of  Labourers,  by  the 
terms     of    which    the    peasant    was 
forbidden  to  quit  the  parish  where  he 
lived  in  search  of  better-paid  employ- 
ment ;  if  he  disobeyed  he   became  a 
"  fugitive,"  and  subject  to  imprison- 
ment at  the  hands  of  the  justices  of 
the  peace.    As  manufactures,  and  com- 
mercial enterprise  generally,  began  to 
extend  in  all   directions,  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  towns  naturally  multiplied 
apace,  until  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century  a  cry  arose   that 
there  were  not  hands  enough  left  in 
the  country  districts  to  till  the  soil 
and  gather  in  the  fruits  of  the  earth. 


294 


The  Flight  from  the  Fields, 


It  was,  however,  difficult  to  prove  the 
actual  depopulation.  No  official  re- 
cord had  hitherto  been  kept  of  the 
number  of  heads  in  each  parish,  and 
the  evidence  of  the  registers  was  not 
trustworthy,  for  registration  was  not 
yet  ordained  by  law,  and  consisted 
for  the  most  part  of  the  entries 
made  by  parson  or  clerk.  Thus 
none  but  those  were  included  who, 
or  whose  parents,  belonged  to  the 
State  Church.  It  was  only  here  and 
there  that  a  Gilbert  White  existed, 
curious  and  painstaking  enough  to  go 
from  house  to  house  and  deliberately 
count  the  inmates.  At  this  juncture 
appeared  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village, 
a  lament  which,  in  addition  to  its 
acknowledged  poetical  value,  contains 
sundry  home-truths  singularly  appli- 
cable to  the  condition  of  things  in  our 
own  day,  a  hundred  and  twenty  years 
later.  "  Sweet  Auburn,"  indeed,  finds 
many  a  counterpart  in  the  modern 
villages  of  agricultural  counties.  The 
causes  which  led  to  the  exodus  in 
Goldsmith's  time  were,  some  of  them, 
identical  with  those  which  prevail 
now.  It  is  worth  while  to  consider 
what  these  causes  were  and  are,  and 
also  what  new  allurements  the  march 
of  time  has  discovered,  so  irresistible 
in  rustic  eyes. 

They  may  be  divided  broadly  into 
two  classes,  those  of  necessity  and  those 
of  choice.  For  we  must  not  forget 
that,  if  the  peasants  and  their  offspring 
have  been  leaving  the  country,  the 
country  also  has  been  steadily  leaving 
them.  When  Virgil  told  the  farmers 
that  they  were  the  happiest  of  mor- 
tals if  they  could  but  become  conscious 
of  their  good  fortune,  he  did  not  con- 
template an  era  of  steam-ploughs  and 
tln:eshing-machines,  or  bear  in  mind 
the  unconscionable  waywardness  of 
a  British  climate.  Nor  did  he  anti- 
cipate the  difficulty  of  maintaining  a 
family  on  a  precarious  wage — in  severe 
weather  apt  to  vanish  altogether — of 
twelve  to  fourteen  shillings  a  week. 
So,  too,  when  Cicero  in  his  dogmatic 
fashion  declares  that  of  all  professions 
none  is  better,  more  profitable,  or  more 


worthy  of  a  free  man,  than  the  pui*- 
suit  of  agriculture,  we  must  not  apply 
the  dictum  literally  to  those  who,  as 
master  and  man,  follow  the  calling  in, 
let  us  say,  Norfolk  or  Herefordshire. 
Probably,  if  we  were  able  to  consult 
a  full  and  unimpeachable  record  of 
the  past,  we  should  find  that  at  no 
period  and  in  no  country  has  rural 
life  combined  Arcadian  simplicity  with 
real  comfort  and  contentment. 

Those  of  us  who  are  descending  into 
the  vale  of  years  can  conjure  up  sundry 
sights  and  sounds  now  no  longer  to  be 
encountered  in  the  course  of  a  country 
walk.  Not  many,  for  example,  of  the 
present  generation  can  have  seen,  and 
fewer  heard,  a  flail.  That  venerable 
implement,  already  well  on  its  way 
towards  extinction,  will  soon  be  found 
only  among  the  curiosities  of  a  museum. 
And  yet,  not  long  ago,  how  proud  a 
part  it  played  in  the  farmer's  economy  ? 
Who  that  has  ever  listened  to  it  can 
forget  the  rhythmical  cadence  of  four 
flails  plied  by  skilful  hands  1  The  echo 
of  it  will  never  quite  die  out  of  his 
ears.  The  time  was  kept  so  rigidly, 
each  melodious  thud  fell  with  such  un- 
erring precision,  that  the  result  was 
a  musical  quartette  which  never  jarred 
upon  the  most  sensitive  tympanum, 
for  it  meant  bread.  To  this  tune  it 
was  that  for  centuries  our  golden  grain 
was  shed  upon  the  barn-floor.  The 
term  itself  may  be  traced  back  in  our 
literature  to  the  very  earliest  examples 
of  a  settled  English  language.  Lang- 
land  uses  it  in  Piers  Plowmcm,  and  it 
may  be,  for  all  we  know,  a  relic  of  the 
Koman  occupation,  for  it  is  undoubt- 
edly, so  at  least  say  the  shrewdest 
etymologists,  a  corruption  of  the  Latin 
flageUum — possibly,  but  not  certainly, 
through  the  Old  French  Jlad,  But 
its  glory  is  departed  with  the  homy 
hands  which  once  wielded  it  so  deftly. 
The  art  of  threshing  by  hand  has 
given  place  to  the  noisier,  unmnsicaly 
but  far  more  expeditious  method  whose 
presence  is  betrayed  by  the  column  of 
black  smoke  and  the  snorting  engine 
of  civilization.  The  work  which  ere- 
while  kept  four  men  busy  through  the 


Thr  Flight  from  the  Fields. 


•295 


winter  months  is  now  accomplished  in  a 
couple  of  days.  The  scythe  and  sickle, 
again,  once  indispensable  and  uni- 
versal, have  lost  their  importance,  and 
are  reserved  only  for  emergencies. 
Where  storms  have  ruthlessly  laid  the 
crops,  their  virtue  is  still,  if  grudg- 
ingly, acknowledged,  and  on  the  steep 
hill-side  the  new-fangled  mower  is 
helpless.  But  we  no  longer  identify 
them  with  the  harvest.  They  are  as 
scarce  as  the  gleaners,  whose  poor 
perquisite  is  now,  thanks  to  a  diligent 
use  of  the  rake,  reduced  to  a  sorry 
minimum.  The  reaper,  indeed,  has  fared 
somewhat  better.  Him  and  his  sickle 
we  meet  in  all  tongues  and  in  all  ages, 
nor  can  they  be  said  to  have  altered 
in  any  essential  respect  since  their 
first  appearance  in  the  harvest-field. 
If  we  turn  to  a  Dictionary  of  Antiqui- 
ties, we  find  them  represented  on  some 
of  the  most  ancient  coins  known  to 
numismatists,  or  confronting  us  in 
hieroglyphics  and  the  earliest  exist- 
ing specimens  of  pictures  in  stone.  It 
is  the  reaper  who  symbolizes  in  the 
poets  two  of  the  prof oundest  mysteries 
which  environ  mankind.  Time  and 
Death.  The  plough,  since  Triptolemus 
tirst  invented  it,  lias  undergone  many 
changes  and  improvements,  though 
a  type  closely  corresponding  to  the 
original  is  still  jealously  maintained 
in  some  few  ultra-conservative  lands, 
as,  for  instance,  in  some  parts  of 
Northern  Italy  and  India.  But  the 
sickle  of  to-day,  let  us  rather  say  of 
yesterday,  is  at  least  as  old  as  Homer 
and  Hesiod,  and  has  never  appreciably 
diverged  from  the  primitive  model. 

The  fiail  and  the  sickle,  each  of 
which  once  kept  many  a  pair  of 
i lands  employed,  having  thus  retired 
in  favour  of  more  complicated  but  in- 
finitely less  dilatory  machines,  one  rea- 
son why  rural  districts  are  more  thinly 
])opulated  now  than  formerly  stands 
immediately  disclosed.  The  same  work 
now  occupies  less  time  and  fewer 
hands.  The  mower  is  an  ungainly 
object,  especially  when  it  embraces  also 
the  function  of  a  sheaf-binder  ;  but  it 
re(inires  the  attention  of  only  two  men 


to  effect  in  a  single  day  what  would 
once  have  occupied  a  dozen  men  for  a 
week.  It  is  only  when  the  carting 
begins,  and  the  weather  is  threatening, 
that  the  lack  of  strong  arms  is  apt  to 
make  itself  felt.  This  was  the  case 
in  some  parts  of  the  country  during 
the  last  harvest,  which  in  many  cases 
was  easily  cut,  but  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  carried.  Even  with  all  the 
mechanical  appliances  now  at  his  com- 
mand the  farmer  could  not  contrive  to 
do  everything  in  the  one  week  of  fine 
weather  vouchsafed  to  him.  High 
wages,  with  contingent  advantages  in 
the  shape  of  unlimited  small  beer  or 
cider,  sometimes  failed  to  attract  the 
desired  quota  of  labourers.  It  was  not 
that  the  tempting  offers  were  dis- 
carded, but  rather  that  there  was  no 
one  to  discard  them.  There  was  no 
reserve,  as  heretofore,  of  men  anxi- 
ously looking  out  for  a  day's  work. 
They  had  fled  from  the  fields  ;  a  bare 
crew  remained,  just  sufficient  to  work 
the  ship  in  fair  weather,  but  there  were 
no  supernumeraries,  no  stowaways 
even,  to  man  the  pumps  when  a  crisis 
ariived.  In  a  year  of  average  sun- 
shine this  would  not  have  mattered ; 
but  no  successful  antidote  has  yet  been 
discovered  to  repeated  showers  of  rain 
during  the  ticklish  operation  of  in- 
gathering. In  years  to  come  no  doubt 
the  missing  nostrum  will  be  duly  sup- 
plied. The  farmer  will  press  a  button, 
and  his  crops  will  fall  in  symmetrical 
lines  to  the  earth  ;  a  second,  and  they 
will  rise  in  orderly  sheaves  and  shocks; 
a  third,  and  they  will  be  spirited  in  a 
moment  of  time  to  his  gamers,  or 
range  themselves  in  comely  ricks,  or 
betake  themselves  whithersoever  he 
may  desire,  perhaps  to  the  market 
itself,  returning  in  a  new  golden  shape 
to  their  expectant  master.  But  that 
will  not  come  to  pass  just  yet,  for  all 
the  strides  of  mechanics  and  electricity. 
For  the  present  the  husbandman  must 
even  take  his  chance,  like  the  rest  of 
us,  **  with  heigh-ho  1  the  wind  and  the 
rain  '' ;  and,  unhappily  for  him,  his  in- 
terests are,  more  than  the  rest,  at  the 
mercy  of  the  barometer. 


296 


The  Flujht  from  the  Fields. 


Obviously,  then,  it  is  not  mere 
caprice  that  urges  the  rank  and  file 
of  English 'villages  to  abandon  their 
native  hills  and  dales  and  seek  a  living 
elsewhere.  Though  hands  be  skilful 
and  arms  as  brawny  as  ever,  iron  arms 
are  cheaper,  and  fingers  that  work  by 
steam  more  amenable  to  discipline  than 
flesh  and  blood  can  be.  When,  there- 
fore, he  finds  the  reaping  and  thresh- 
ing of  his  fathers  superseded  by  the 
new  labour-saving  appliances,  and  no- 
thing left  for  himself  but  the  occa- 
sional pursuits  of  sowing  and  hoeing, 
the  rustic  must  needs  think  it  is  time 
to  be  gone.  At  least,  if  too  old  him- 
self to  make  a  move,  he  will  impress 
upon  his  children  the  necessity  of 
striking  out  a  new  path.  And  in 
these  days  he  will  probably  address 
hearers  who  are  not  only  open  to  con- 
viction, but  are  already  eager  to  tempt 
fortune  under  another  sky,  though  it 
be  no  further  distant  than  the  nearest 
manufacturing  town.  For  many  in- 
fluences have  of  late  years  been  at 
work  to  foster  the  spirit  of  adventure 
and  the  love  of  change,  and  they  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  farmer's  in- 
ability to  provide  employment  for  so 
many  hands  as  formerly.  In  any  case, 
agriculture  being  what  it  now  is, 
necessity  would  have  thinned  the 
dwellers  in  the  cottages,  for  the  mind 
of  Hodge,  if  not  abnormally  nimble, 
is  nevertheless  quite  capable  of  rea- 
soning that  without  work  there 
can  be  no  pay,  and  without  pay 
no  means  of  honest  livelihood.  But 
necessity  has  been  well  seconded  by 
inclination.  The  day  is  long  past 
when  the  villager  was  the  obedient 
servant  of  the  squire  and  the  parson, 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  was  made 
of  an  altogether  inferior  materiaf,  and 
fearing  nothing  so  much  as  the  loss  of 
their  countenance.  He  has  discovered 
— partly  through  his  own  observation 
and  research,  and  still  more,  perhaps, 
through  the  persistent  hammering  of 
journeymen  agitators  of  various  com- 
plexions— that  he  has  not  only  a  soul  of 
his  own,  but  a  body  entirely  at  his 
own  disposal.     Time  was  when  father 


and  sons  worked  together  in  the  same 
fields  under  the  same  master,  and 
scarcely  realized  that  there  was  a 
world  beyond  the  parish  bounds,  or  at 
any  rate  the  county  town.  But  now 
it  is  a  rare  case  to  find  a  complete 
family.  If  the  father  still  labours  in 
the  fields  of  his  youth,  the  sons  are 
scattered ;  one,  it  may  be,  is  in  New- 
Zealand,  another  in  America,  a  third 
in  London,  a  fourth  in  Birmingham. 
Often  it  is  not  known  with  any  cer- 
tainty where  they  all  are ;  it  is  perfectly 
plain  where  they  are  not — they  are  no 
longer  at  home. 

Difficulties  in  respect  of  work  and 
wages  are  by  no  means  confined  to  the 
country.  Yet  everybody  assumes  that 
he  can  be  usefully  and  remuneratively 
employed  in  the  town,  until  bitter  ex- 
perience destroys  the  delusion.  But 
rural  life  in  modern  times  presents, 
especially  to  the  youthful  mind,  other 
disabilities  which  are  in  no  way  con- 
nected with  wages  and  work.  Per- 
haps it  was  never  so  charming  as  the 
poets  would  have  us  believe  ;  at  least, 
it  may  fairly  be  doubted  whether  the 
idyllic  happiness  with  which  they  have 
credited  it  would  have  ever  been  en- 
dorsed beyond  the  confines  of  Arcadia. 
We  are  invited  to  observe  the  general 
air  of  hilarity  pervading  the  carter 
and  the  ploughman, — "  How  jocund  did 
they  drive  their  team  afield  ! "  What- 
ever may  have  been  the  prevailing; 
rustic  temperament  in  Gray's  century, 
it  exhibits  in  our  own  assuredly  a 
very  meagre  proportion  of  jocundity. 
Jocund,  forsooth  ! — they  are  at  the  very 
nadir  of  dulness  and  depression.  It 
would  be  pleasant  could  we  satisfy 
ourselves  that  it  was  ever  otherwise. 
In  the  absence  of  ocular  proof  we  must 
fall  back  upon  the  records,  no  doubt 
more  or  less  highly  coloiu*ed,  which 
have  come  down  to  us.  By  the  light 
of  these  it  would  certainly  seem  that 
the  spirits  of  the  countryman  have 
sunk  to  an  abnormally  low  ebb.  The 
brook  babbles  as  musically  as  ever,  the 
song  of  the  throstle  has  lost  none  of 
its  "  linked  sweetness,"  the  glory  of 
the  golden  gorse  still  charms  ou    eyes. 


The  Flight  from  the  Fields. 


29r 


as  it  charmed  the  eyes  of  Linnaeus ; 
but  Theocritus  himself  could  detect  no 
corresponding  blitheness  in  the  man 
who  now  passes  his  life  amid  these  fair 
surroundings.  Why  is  it  that  he  has 
become  so  stolid,  so  uninterested — ^alas ! 
so  uninteresting  ?  Why  is  it  that  the 
country,  even  though  work  were 
abundant  and  wages  liberal,  would  fail 
to  keep  its  sons  at  home  1 

One  answer  to  these  questions  is 
presumably  to  be  found  in  the  changed 
conditions  of  social  life.  It  is  still, 
and  let  us  hope  it  will  always  be,  an 
agreeable  experience  to  exchange  from 
time  to  time  the  exhausted  air  of  cities 
for  the  pure  breezes  of  the  hill-side. 
We  do  not  stay  long  enough  to  become 
conscious  of  anything  like  monotony  ; 
many  of  us  honestly  regret  that  we 
are  forced  to  hurry  back  so  soon. 
Least  of  all  do  we  lament  the  absence 
of  those  festive  customs  which  once 
made  the  country  almost  as  lively  as 
the  town.  We  go  in  quest  of  rural 
scenery,  rural  fare,  rural  peace  and 
quietness,  and  these  being  happily 
discovered  and  enjoyed,  our  holiday  is 
complete.  It  is  nothing  to  us  that 
there  are  no  distractions,  no  amuse- 
ments ;  it  is  even  a  distinct  relief  to  be 
quit  of  such  things  for  a  while,  and 
to  throw  ourselves  unreservedly  into 
the  arms  of  the  Great  Mother.  Prob- 
ably we  do  not  for  a  moment  con- 
sider how  it  would  be  if  we  were 
/  doomed  to  spend,  not  an  occasional 
fortnight,  but  a  whole  lifetime,  in  her 
company,  with  no  more  variety  than 
falls  to  the  lot  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hodge, 
and  with  household  arrangements  on 
the  same  scale  as  theirs.  For  them, 
however,  it  is  in  truth  a  very  different 
matter.  They  have  long  ago  ceased  to 
derive,  if  indeed  they  ever  derived,  any 
special  satisfaction  from  living  face  to 
face,  as  it  were,  with  Nature ;  it  is 
notorious  that  genuine  country-folk  are 
deplorably  ignorant  of  natural  his- 
tory. For  them,  life  too  often  means 
a  mere  grind,  year  in  year  out,  illu- 
mined by  none  of  the  mild  dissipation 
which  once,  if  we  are  to  believe  the 
chroniclers,   added    a    gentle   zest   to 


what  must  always  have  been  a 
somewhat  tedious  existence,  soured, 
as  it  not  seldom  is  by  periodically 
recurring  exigencies,  of  which  their 
few  weekly  shillings  will  rarely 
allow  them  to  become  quite  indepen- 
dent. In  a  large  village  there  may  yet 
survive  some  poor  semblance  of  ani- 
mation, but  an  outlying  hamlet  must 
be,  for  all  the  social  amenities  it  affords,, 
a  very  abomination  of  desolation. 
Morality,  it  may  be,  stands  higher 
now  than  formerly,  but  it  has  been 
purchased  at  the  cost  of  all  hilarity. 
It  seems  a  pity  that  the  two  cannot 
exist  together.  Some  good  judges  are^ 
of  opinion  that  in  many  of  our  villager 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  is  now  to 
be  detected;  the  people  are  neithei- 
good  nor  gay.  Possibly  this  is  a  libel ; 
let  us,  at  any  rate,  give  them  credit 
for  being  as  decorous  as  they  are  dull^ 
until  our  own  experience  proves  the- 
contrary. 

We  may  take  it  for  granted  that  no- 
milkmaid  has  been  known  for  many 
a  long  year  to  sing  Kit  Marlowe's 
**  smooth  song,"  as  was  the  habit  of 
her  kind  in  old  Izaak's  day.  Singings 
or  silent,  she  is  rarely  visible  in 
modern  meadows.  She  and  her 
simple  leisurely  ways  must  have  begua 
to  disappear  from  rural  economy  so- 
soon  as  it  became  possible  to  transport 
the  milk  a  hundred  miles  from  cow  to- 
consumer.  There  is  no  time  left  for 
singing  now,  when  at  all  hazards  a 
certain  train  must  be  caught,  or  so- 
many  precious  gallons  will  be  wasted. 
The  milk-farmer  of  to-day  is  far  too 
practical  a  person  to  engage  the  ser- 
vice of  winsome  Maudlin.  His  milk- 
maids in  all  likelihood  are  made  of 
sterner  stuff  than  that  light-hearted 
damsel  who  "cast  away  all  care  and 
sung  like  a  nightingale."  With  her, 
however,  has  departed  a  cheery  type- 
which  the  country  could  ill  afford  to- 
lose,  if  it  was  to  retain  its  character 
for  the  poetry  of  hand-service.  She 
is  gone  with  the  smock-frocks  and  the 
harvest-homes.  At  the  celebration  of 
the  latter  it  is  probable  that  she  used 
to  play  a  prominent  part,  but  she  can 


298 


The  Flight  from  the  Fields, 


hardly  be  pictured  in  connection  with 
its  now  universal  substitute,  the  har- 
vest-thanksgiving. Once  again  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  a  good 
deal  of  harmless  merriment  has  been 
sacrificed,  and  in  lieu  of  it  the  peasant 
has  received  what  must,  in  his  eyes  at 
least,  be  eminently  unsubstantial  in 
comparison.  The  wildest  freaks  of 
harvest  -  home  can  never  have 
warranted  its  suppression.  It  was  at 
any  rate  one  of  the  few  red-letter 
days  to  which  the  farmer's  hard- 
worked,  but  cheerful,  staff  could  look 
forward.  It  bred  and  fostered  a 
pleasant  feeling  of  mutual  regard 
between  master  and  men  for  which 
we  now  look  in  vain.  Those  were  the 
days  when  a  grandfather,  father,  and 
son  might  now  and  again  be  seen 
working  on  one  farm,  and  when  a 
service  of  from  forty  to  fifty  years* 
duration  was  considered  nothing  ex- 
traordinary. Each  labourer  could,  and 
did,  then  take  a  personal  interest,  nay, 
cherish  a  sense  of  actual  co-partner- 
ship, in  the  acres  which  he  helped  to 
cultivate.  But  both  farmers  and  farm- 
men  are  now  continually  on  the 
move.  There  is  no  longer  a  wholesome 
feeling  of  interdependence,  but  in  its 
place  too  often  a  condition  of  veiled 
hostility,  apt  at  critical  moments  to 
break  out  into  open  warfare  or  sum- 
mary desertion.  Hodge  is  now,  poli- 
tically, as  good  a  man  as  his  master, 
und  the  fact  has  been  so  dinned  into 
his  ears  by  pestilent  agitators,  that 
at  length  he  has  become  aware,  not 
indeed  of  the  real  meaning  and  value 
of  his  vote,  but  of  his  increasing  im- 
portance as  a  member  of  provincial 
society.  He  must  be  coaxed  and  his 
humours  carefully  consulted,  if  he 
is  to  condescend  to  work  on  the  land. 
With  the  best  intentions  in  the  world, 
the  master  sometimes  finds  it  a  hard 
matter  to  avoid  wounding  his  sensi- 
tive prejudices,  for  he  suffers  in  these 
days  from  hypersesthesia,  a  dangerous 
malady  from  which  his  forefathers 
were  absolutely  free. 

The  harvest  festival  is  usually  held 
in  the  early  days  of  October,  and  the 


parson  is  in  many  cases  braced  for  the 
occasion  by  a  holiday  of  six  weeks,  or 
longer,  from  which  he  has  just  re- 
turned full  of  health  and  appreciation 
of  foreign  travel.  He  stills  wears  on 
his  manly  brow  the  record  in  bronze 
of  his  feats  as  an  Alpine  climber.  We 
must  do  him  the  justice  to  suppose 
that  he  is  conscious  of  no  incongruity 
when  he  mounts  his  elaborately  be- 
flowered  pulpit  and  implores  his  humble 
hearers  to  be  unceasingly  thankful  for 
the  good  gifts  which  Providence 
showers  upon  them.  Peradventure 
the  ingathering  of  the  fruits  of  the 
earth  in  his  own  neighbourhood  has 
been  attended  with  heart-breaking  loss 
and  disappointment.  It  matters  not. 
Farmer  Giles  is  half  ruined  and  wholly 
disgusted  ;  he  is  implored  to  render 
thanks  for  the  excellent  harvest  in 
Chili  and  Manitoba.  The  grain  of 
Farmer  Stubbs  lies  rotting  in  the 
fields  ;  "  My  brother,  be  thankful,  the 
crops  in  Hungary  and  the  south  of 
Russia  are  far  above  the  average."  If 
his  words  really  carried  weight,  this 
would  be  a  melancholy  view  in  the 
eyes  of  his  agricultural  parishioners, 
but  they  fall  for  the  most  part  on  deaf 
ears.  All  attention  is  directed  to  the 
effective  dressing  of  the  church,  which 
his  daughters  have  compassed  with 
their  usual  skill.  Curiously  enough, 
there  is  hardly  any  wheat  to  be  seen, — 
it  is  too  commonplace ;  but  the  long 
trails  of  russet  bramble-leaves  and  the 
brilliant  cornel-berries  certainly  look 
extremely  well.  Does  it,  perhaps, 
sometimes  strike  the  rheumatic  hedger 
and  ditcher,  once  a  foremost  hand  with 
scythe  and  sickle,  that,  pretty  as  it  all 
is,  a  good  supper  of  beef  and  beer 
would  be  a  surer  passport  to  his  stock 
of  gratitude  ?  His  work  is,  and  always 
has  been,  surely  much  harder  than  the 
parson's,  but  holidays  are  unknown  to 
him.  He  is  old  enough,  maybe,  to 
remember  many  changes  :  on  the  whole, 
could  he  honestly  deliver  his  soul, 
would  he  admit  that  they  have  been 
changes  for  the  better  1  He  can  call 
to  mind  a  time  when  the  church  ser- 
vices indeed  were  fewer  and  less  showy. 


The  Flight  from  the  Fields. 


299 


but  the  parson  took  no  regular  holi- 
day, and  somehow  seemed  to  have 
more  to  bestow  on  his  poorer  neigh- 
bours than  parsons  have  now.  The 
parish  was  not  left  each  year  for  weeks 
together  in  the  charge  of  a  stranger, 
nor  used  the  vicarage  to  be  let  at  so 
many  guineas  a  week  to  no  matter 
what  species  of  tenant  provided  the 
rent  was  duly  forthcoming.  If  he 
were  a  reader  of  The  Guardian  or  TJie 
(Jhurch  Times,  he  would  be  fairly 
amazed  at  the  frantic  struggle  among 
incumbents  with  eligible  parsonages 
to  secure,  in  the  first  place,  a  handsome 
sum  for  the  use  of  house  and  garden 
during  the  months  of  August  and 
September,  and,  secondly,  some  sort  of 
substitute,  the  cheaper  the  better  (say, 
at  a  guinea  a  week  and  the  privilege 
of  riding  a  wall-eyed  cob)  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  few  poor  sheep  in  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Absenteeism,  however,  is  after  all 
neither  so  rampant  nor  so  serious 
among  the  clergy  as  among  the  landed 
gentry.  Religious  observances  can 
always  be  discharged  decently  and  in 
order  so  long  as  there  is  a  duly  quali- 
fied minister  on  the  spot.  He  may 
not  be  the  legally  constituted  holder 
of  the  benefice,  for  the  duties  are  not 
essentially  personal  ;  nay,  a  little  va- 
riety in  the  pulpit  is  sometimes  held  to 
be  even  salutary.  But  a  country  gentle- 
man cannot  sell  or  let  his  house,  and 
pass  on  to  a  stranger,  with  the  lease  or 
title-deeds,  the  local  interests  and  re- 
sponsibilities which  are  in  his  family 
the  growth  of  many  generations.  No 
wonder  the  country  is  dull  when  those 
whose  traditions  are  bound  up  with 
4ill  that  was  once  so  blithe  and  neigh- 
bourly are  compelled  to  pitch  their 
tents  elsewhere.  Probably  no  one  re- 
gi  ets  the  change  more  than  themselves. 
Through  no  fault  of  their  own  many  of 
them  have  been  forced  in  recent  years 
to  watch  their  estates  becoming  more 
and  more  encumbered,  until  finally  the 
last  straw  is  laid,  and  they  and  the 
old  home  must  part  company.  They 
are  necessarily  succeeded  by  one  who 
knowfi  not  Hodge,  who  possibly  does 


not  care  to  know  him,  and  who  cer- 
tainly cannot  inspire  him  with  the  af- 
fection and  reverence  bestowed  as  a 
matter  of  course  upon  a  county  family 
as  old  as  the  hills.  Mere  money  makes 
no  great  impression  on  the  genuine 
countryman,  and  the  modern  plutocrat 
who  in  buying  "  a  place  *'  thinks  also 
to  acquire  a  fee  simple  of  the  loyalty  of 
his  cottagers  is  usually  mistaken.  His 
coming  is  felt  to  break  the  continuity 
of  things  and  to  encourage  the  already 
prevalent  spirit  of  unrest.  It  is  one 
nail  more  in  the  coffin  of  the  Old  Style. 
Merry  England  was  so  called  not 
for  the  festive  character  of  its  metro- 
politan music-halls,  or  the  reckless 
gaiety  of  its  beanfeasts  and  Bank 
Holidays,  but  for  the  cheerful  de- 
meanour of  its  country  parishes.  It 
was  the  country  which  maintained  the 
national  reputation  for  good  fellowship. 
A  visit  to  the  shires  is  recommended 
by  Burton  himself  as  distinctly  anti- 
pathetic to  melancholy.  He  would 
scarcely  recommend  it  at  the  close  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  He  is  all  for 
rural  hilarity.  "  For  my  part,"  he 
declares,  "  I  will  subscribe  to  the  king's 
declaration,  and  was  ever  of  that 
mind,  that  May  games,  wakes,  and 
Whitsun  ales,  &c.,  if  they  be  not  at 
unseasonable  hours,  may  justly  be  per- 
mitted. Let  them  freely  feast,  sing, 
and  dance,  have  their  puppet-plays, 
hobby-horses,  tabors,  crowds,  bag- 
pipes, &c.,  play  at  ball  and  barley- 
breaks,  and  what  sports  and  recrea- 
tions they  like  best."  The  list  almost 
takes  one's  breath  away.  Who  ever 
hears  of  a  hobby-horse  or  a  barley- 
break  in  a  modern  village  ?  Even  the 
dance  on  the  green  is  a  rare  pheno- 
menon ;  where  it  survives  it  is  usually 
for  the  benefit  of  a  class  superior  to  the 
Williams  and  Audreys.  The  latter  have 
lost  all  their  agility,  and  tread  a  measure 
with  the  utmost  diffidence  and  angular- 
ity, as  though  they  had  laid  too  severely 
to  heart  the  ancient  theory  that  no 
man  would  ever  dance  till  he  was 
drunk.  There  is  nothing  to  take  the 
place  of  the  frolics  which  have  died 
out,  and  each  succeeding  decade  has  to 


300 


The  Flight  from  the  Fields. 


mourn  the  loss  of  some  further  shred 
of  festivity  which  helped  ever  so 
little  to  break  the  dead  level  of  mono- 
tony. The  fairs  are  a  mere  ghost 
of  their  former  jolly  selves.  No  doubt 
they  did  occasionally  lead  to  scenes  in 
which  the  bounds  of  propriety  were 
treated  with  scant  regard  ;  liberty,  as 
from  time  to  time  it  always  has  done 
and  always  will  do,  degenerated  into 
license.  Orgies  came  to  pass  here  and 
there  :  the  chimes  were  heard  at  mid- 
night ;  and,  in  the  small  hours  when 
decent  folks  should  be  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  the  just,  the  parish  constable's 
head  was  apt  to  be  broken.  But 
orgies  and  broken  heads  were  not 
abolished  by  the  suppression  or  mutila- 
tion of  rustic  gatherings  ]  they  were 
merely  transferred  to  the  towns. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  business  fell  off 
to  such  a  degree  that  the  fairs  died 
a  natural  and  lingering  death ;  rail- 
ways diverted  the  course  of  trade ; 
competition  ruined  one  district  and 
enhanced  the  importance  of  another. 
But  whatever  the  cause  of  their  de- 
cline, and  whatever  the  arguments 
against  their  continuance,  it  will 
readily  be  conceded  that  with  their 
collapse  there  also  departed  a  highly- 
valued  fund  of  harmless  amusement 
which  made  a  landmark  in  the  peasant's 
weary  round. 

No  coaches  now  thunder  through 
the  village  street ;  no  red-coated  guard 
with  his  yard  of  tin  wakes  the  echoes 
of  the  country-side,  scaring  the  lap- 
wing and  rousing  the  harsh  challenge 
of  the  jay.  True,  there  is  during  the 
summer  months  a  feeble  revival,  or 
rather  imitation,  of  the  coaching  age, 
but  it  is,  and  is  well  known  to  be,  a 
mere  whim  indulged  in  by  a  few  who 
can  afford  to  lose  time  and  money. 
Nor  does  it  penetrate  into  the  genuine 
country.  Nothing  can  seriously  inter- 
fere with  the  sway  of  the  railroad 
until  some  means  of  locomotion  in- 
dependent alike  of  steam  and  of  horse- 
flesh becomes  possible  and  popular. 
But  the  train,  though  it  brings  town 
iind  country  nearer  together,  does  not 
supply  the   place   of   the  coach.      It 


takes  away  more  and  more  of  the  vil- 
lagers, but  it  promotes  no  festivity, 
engenders  no  affectionate  interest. 
Rather  it  rides  rough-shod  over  old 
customs  and  associations,  and  sym- 
bolizes very  faithfully  the  insane 
hurry  and  bustle  of  the  present  age. 

It  remains  to  sum  up  very  briefly 
the  causes  which  tend,  as  each  new 
census  emphatically  proves,  to  dimin- 
ish our  rural  population.  In  some 
of  them  the  cause  can  hardly  be 
distinguished  from  the  effect.  Many 
cheerful  customs  have  fallen  through 
owing  to  the  lack  of  interest  and 
support ;  on  the  other  hand,  some- 
times the  lack  of  patronage — that  isy 
the  lack  of  people — may  in  a 
measure  be  due  to  the  dulness  induced 
by  the  extinction  of  the  customs. 
Up  to  a  certain  point  it  is  of  course 
advantageous  that  the  population  of 
agi'icultural  parishes  should  be  kept 
within  due  bounds.  The  country 
offers  to  the  poor  but  very  few  oppor- 
tunities of  employment  save  on  the 
land.  A  village  will  be  able  to 
support  half-a-dozen  small  tradesmen,.' 
but  seldom  more.  The  bulk  of  the 
male  inhabitants  must  be  occupied 
in  the  fields.  It  would  therefore  be 
manifestly  embarrassing  if  no  one 
would  budge.  Happily  there  has. 
very  seldom  been  any  apprehension 
on  this  score.  The  fear  is  lest  the 
life  of  the  farm- labourer  should  become 
so  distasteful  that  our  reputation,, 
as  a  people,  for  good  husbandry  will 
be  seriously  impaired.  The  improved, 
or  at  least  expanded,  teaching  of  the 
last  twenty  years  has  opened  many 
rustic  minds  to  facts  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  very  gradually 
assimilated.  It  has  become  tolerably 
well  known  that  life  in  the  town  is. 
on  the  whole  a  better  paid  and  infi- 
nitely more  exhilarating  experience 
than  in  the  woods,  the  meadows,  or 
the  corn-fields.  The  hours  of  work 
are  shorter,  the  food  is  more  varied 
and  pei'haps  better,  holidays  are  not 
uncommon,  wages  are  higher.  There 
is  not  the  same  exposure  to  weather, 
and  in  case  of  illness  there  are  facili- 


The  Flight  from  the  Fields. 


301 


ties  in  the  shape  of  hospital  comforts 
which  are  conspicuous  only  by  their 
absence  in  a  remote  hamlet.  Again, 
there  is  comparative  independence,  and, 
iit  the  same  time,  the  means  are  abun- 
dant of  gratifying  man's  naturally 
social  and  sociable  tendencies.  To 
plough  or  hoe  all  day  without  ex- 
changing a  look  or  a  word  with  a 
fellow-creature  is  excellent  for  pur- 
poses of  contemplation,  but  it  is  dull. 
In  the  town  there  is  constant  motion, 
an  endless  stream  of  human  life 
going,  passing,  returning.  There  are  a 
thousand  petty  incidents,  each  more 
or  less  interesting,  for  one  that 
happens  on  the  farm.  Moreover 
there  are  definite  amusements  for 
play-hours.  It  is  perhaps  fortunate 
that  in  the  country  so  little  leisure 
is  possible  to  the  working  man.  He 
would  not  know  what  to  do  with 
himself  in  his  enforced  idleness. 
None  of  the  old  recognized  country 
pastimes  have  survived,  or  none  in 
which  he  can  comfortably  bear  a 
hand.  His  very  children  do  not  get 
their  cricket  and  football  as  do  their 
cousins  in  the  suburb.  His  existence  is 
utterly  devoid  of  speculation.  There 
are  possibilities  in  every  town,  but 
none  in  the  country,  where  the 
peasant's  highest  hopes  are  restricted 
to  regular  employment  all  the  year 
round.  He  may  have  in  him  the 
makings  of  a  Hampden  or  a  Milton, 
but  neither  he,  nor  his  neighbours, 
will  ever  know  it.  He  can  never  rise 
beyond    the    position    of    head-carter. 


Obviously  he  cannot  save  money  ; 
and  unless  he  be  young  enough  to 
emigrate,  he  must  live  and  die  an 
eminently  useful  man,  but  wholly 
innocent  of  change  or  entertainment. 

Such,  then,  are  some  of  the  reasons 
which  seem  to  account  for  the  deser- 
tion of  the  fields.  They  may  be  stated 
succinctly  as  want  of  work  and  ab- 
horrence of  dulness.  Perhaps  the  one 
person  left  in  humble  life  who  can 
appreciate  the  delights  of  the  country 
is  the  poacher.  His  is  a  calling  to 
which  hilarity  is  foreign ;  he  never 
finds  the  country  dull  so  long  as  game 
is  plentiful  and  his  ear  and  eye  do  not 
play  him  false.  But  he  stands  alone. 
The  presumption  is  that  in  days  to 
come  he  will  pursue  his  illegal  but 
fascinating  way  with  even  less  fear 
of  interruption  than  at  present.  For, 
unless  some  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling  ensues,  the  human  population 
of  those  regions  which  he  explores 
so  carefully  will  grow  gradually  less 
and  less,  until  finally  a  day  must 
arrive  when  the  farmer,  if  he  is 
to  farm  any  longer,  will  have  to 
manipulate  his  crops  by  the  aid  of 
automata.  The  attractions  of  the 
towns  and  the  colonies  will  soon  prove 
too  strong  a  magnet  for  the  few 
remaining  labourers ;  and  the  eco- 
nomy of  hand-service  which  he  in- 
augurated to  save  his  own  pocket  he 
will  be  compelled  to  practise  still  more 
completely  in  order  to  save  himself 
from  utter  ruin. 

Arthur  Gate. 


302 


SIR  MICHAEL. 

A    FANTASY    ON    AN    ALTAR-PIECE   OF    PERUGINO.       {Nat.    GoXL    No.    288.) 


The  sun  of  a  bright  Februai-y  after- 
noon, already  making  its  power  felt  on 
our  favoured  southern  coast,  lit  up  a 
motley  and  excited  crowd  in  the  white 
market-place  of  a  little  fishing  town 
whose  general  appearance  has  not  much 
changed  since  the  day  we  speak  of, 
now  nearly  four  centuries  ago.  Room 
was  made  for  the  township  and  for 
the  port  by  the  southward  opening  of 
a  rich  and  warm  valley  fed  with  the 
benignant  sun  and  moisture  that 
England  knows  not  east  of  the  Exe. 
All  ways  in  the  village  finally  led  to 
the  market-place,  and  out  of  the 
market-place  one  came  down  to  the 
foreshore  by  a  fairly  well-kept  road. 
On  the  north  side  a  lane  wound  up- 
wards through  the  valley  overlooked 
from  a  slight  eminence  by  the  Manor 
House,  which  commanded  a  view,  far 
to  east  and  west  over  the  changing 
tints  of  the  Channel  sea.  At  this 
time,  however,  there  was  evidently 
trouble  of  some  kind  stirring,  and  yet 
no  sign  from  the  Manor.  In  truth, 
Sir  Guy  Trevanion  had  been  away  for 
some  years,  and  no  one  knew  exactly 
when  to  look  for  his  return.  The  family 
had  kept  themselves  clear  of  treasons 
and  forfeitures  through  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses,  but  were  suspected  of 
Yorkist  leanings  ;  and  shortly  after 
Henry  the  Seventh's  power  was  estab- 
lished. Sir  Guy  had  received  a  friendly 
hint  from  a  high  quarter  that  he 
would  not  do  amiss  to  spend  some 
time  in  honourable  foreign  adventures. 
Accordingly  he  had  betaken  himself 
with  a  picked  band  of  men-at-arms, 
like  other  good  knights  of  many 
nations,  to  the  service  of  those  Catho- 
lic and  politic  princes  Isabella  of 
Castile  and  Ferdinand  of  Aragon. 
His  wife  received  intelligence  from 
time  to  time,  and  it  was  understood  that 


Sir  Guy  was  doing  right  good  service 
against  the  Moors,  and  had  been 
specially  honoured  by  Queen  Isabella. 
It  was  also  told  that  he  had  gotten  for  a 
sworn  brother-in-arms  a  certain  knight 
of  Malta,  known  as  Sir  Luke,  an 
Italian  gentleman  whose  deeds  against 
the  Infidels,  aided  by  family  con- 
nexions with  a  prince  of  the  Church, 
had  earned  him  the  right  to  think  and 
say  many  things  which  might  have 
exposed  the  soul  of  an  ordinary  citizen 
to  the  paternal  care  of  the  nearest 
spiritual  court,  and  his  body  and  goods 
to  the  temporal  consequences  of  ex- 
communication and  penance,  or  severer 
forms  of  proceeding. 

Now  Port  Enoch,  being  in  an  English 
diocese,  was  also  not  unblest  with, 
the  jurisdiction  of  a  bishop  and  an 
archdeacon,  and  all  things  a  Court 
Christian  ought  to  have  about  it.  In 
those  days  there  was  a  new  archdeacon, 
a  business-like  clerk  whose  approved 
orthodoxy  was  well  matched  with  a 
keen  appetite  for  fees.  As  the  Tre- 
vanions  were  understood  to  have  no 
love  for  officials  and  summoners,  and 
there  was  not  much  money  in  the 
village.  Port  Enoch  had  mostly  been 
let  alone  by  the  archdeacon's  prede- 
cessors. But  the  absence  of  the  lord 
with  the  best  of  his  men  seemed  now 
to  offer  a  fair  opening ;  and  a  subject 
was  not  wanting.  An  old  retainer  of 
the  Manor,  by  name  Jenifer  Datcher, 
had  long  been  noted  by  ecclesiastical 
authority  as  being  suspected  of  heresy, 
or  sorcery,  or  both.  The  substance  of 
her  offence  was  neither  worse  nor 
better  than  that  for  many  years  she 
had  been  the  wise  woman  of  the 
village,  and  her  cures  had  been  more 
numerous  and  successful  than  any 
common  lay  person's  ought  to  be.  She 
once  even  brought  round  a  girl  reputed 


Sir  Michael. 


3oa 


to  be  possessed,  on  whom  the  regular 
process  of  exorcism  had  failed ;  which 
manifestly  was  an  enormous  and  cen- 
surable presumption.  Most  chieliy, 
however,  the  archdeacon  reflected 
that,  by  setting  the  process  of  his 
court  in  motion  against  her  while  the 
powers  of  resistance  were  still  weak,  he 
could  scarcely  fail  to  make  something 
out  of  it  in  the  way  of  fees,  fines,  or, 
still  better,  a  moderate  amount  of  os- 
tensible fees,  and  a  more  substantial 
bribe  from  the  Manor  House  for  set- 
tling the  affair  on  easy  terms.  There- 
fore it  was  that  on  this  February  after- 
noon Port  Enoch  was  invaded  by  a 
sompnour  (if  one  may  preserve  the 
Chaucerian  form),  together  with 
the  secular  arm  in  the  shape  of  a 
sheriff's  officer  and  a  somewhat 
ragged  fraction  of  the  power  of  the 
county.  Having  entered  the  village 
by  a  coast  road,  they  found  them- 
selves confronted  in  the  market- 
place by  the  available  men  of  Port 
Enoch  ;  men  of  a  sturdy  breed,  who, 
though  inferior  in  numbers,  were  not 
disposed  to  yield  to  archdeacon  or 
sheriff  without  dispute.  They  had  no 
one  leader  and  no  plan  of  action,  but 
their  words  were  of  the  kind  that  show 
a  readiness  to  pass  into  deeds  if  a 
leader  is  found. 

"  Attach  our  Jenifer  toarchdaken's 
court,  will  'ee]  'Hath  a-done  us 
more  good  here  to  Port  Enoch,  vather 
and  zon,  these  vorty  year,  than  ever 
yiiii  did  with  your  trashy  trade." 

**  Signijicavity  zaid  'ee !  'tis  more 
like  to  signify  broken  mazzards  to  some 
of  'ee,  true  as  yiiii'm  there." 

Such  were  some  of  the  more  quot- 
able remarks  of  the  men  of  Port 
Enoch.  Meanwhile  the  sompnour,  a 
fat  little  man  with  a  foxy  head,  was 
waxing  impatient  and  urging  the 
officer  to  risk  an  assault,  when  a  di- 
version was  caused  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  Lady  Trevanion.  She 
was  followed  by  a  dozen  of  stout  men 
and  lads  from  the  Manor,  who  quietly 
reinforced  the  groups  of  flshermen.  The 
'ady  went  from  one  to  another  with 
words  of  encouragement. 


"  What !  shall  these  shavelings 
have  away  our  people  before  our  face  % 
Must  I  take  down  the  old  sword  that 
Sir  Hugh  bore  at  Lewes,  and  lead 
you  myself  ?  Billy  Beer,  they  call  you 
a  boy,  but  you  have  the  stuff*  of  three 
such  men  as  those.  Peter  Cottle,  they 
say  you  be  an  old  ancient  man,  but 
you  are  full  young  enough  to  beat  a 

sompnour's  pate ;  and  hark "  Here 

Lady  Trevanion  whispered  something 
to  Peter  Cottle  which  caused  his  eyes  to 
open  enormously,  and  a  flash  of  joyful 
intelligence,  promptly  subdued  with 
some  effort,  to  pass  over  his  face.  She 
continued  aloud :  "  You,  Peter,  take 
the  command.  Dick  Pengelly,  you 
aid  him.  Do  your  best,  friends  all,  as 
if  Sir  Guy  were  here,  and  when  he 
comes  back  let  him  know  how  you 
deal  with  apparitors  and  such  cattle 
that  come  prying  and  sneaking  in  Port 
Enoch." 

Notwithstanding  these  brave  wordfr 
the  forces  of  the  law  spiritual  and 
temporal  were  obviously  more  than  a 
match  for  the  defenders.  But  the 
spiritual  officer  did  not  want  a  scandal^ 
and  also  had  no  personal  love  of  strife 
at  any  time ;  and  the  temporal  officer 
had  no  great  mind  for  fighting  in  that 
cause.  Accordingly  the  sompnour 
began  to  parley.  Lady  Trevanion  dis- 
appeared with  two  or  three  followers, 
leaving  Peter  Cottle  as  chief  spokes- 
man. It  is  needless  to  relate  the 
negotiations,  which  were  carried  on  in 
a  diffuse  and  rich  dialect.  After  about 
ah  hour's  talk  the  representative  of 
the  Church  declared  that  his  patience 
was  exhausted,  and  gave  the  order  ta 
advance.  If  he  had  kept  a  look-out 
to  the  flanks  he  might  have  seen  how 
certain  of  Lady  Trevanion' s  men  stole 
down  the  sides  of  the  market-place  and 
posted  themselves  at  the  openings  of 
the  lanes.  And  if  he  had  listened,  he 
might  possibly  have  heard  something 
from  the  higher  ground.  But  he 
neither  saw  nor  heard  anything  out  of 
the  common.  To  the  surprise  and 
relief,  for  somewhat  different  reasons, 
of  the  sompnour  and  the  sheriff's 
officer,  the  men  of  Port  Enoch,  seem- 


:304 


Sir  Michael, 


ingly  for  want  of  any  coherent  order, 
fell  back  almost  at  once ;  and  already 
the  way  seemed  clear  to  Jenifer 
Datcher's  house,  where  that  person 
was  keeping  up  her  reputation  for 
uncanny  ways  by  looking  out  of  the 
window  as  if  she  were  not  in  the  least 
•concerned.  But  the  secular  officer's 
•ear,  more  exercised  in  such  things  than 
the  sompnour's,  now  caught  above  the 
general  murmur  and  clamour  a  new 
sound  of  ill  omen.  It  could  be  nothing 
■else ;  it  was  the  ringing  beat  of  hoofs 
on  the  cobblestones,  mixed  with  the 
clink  of  iron.  And  before  one  could 
Ask  what  more  it  meant,  the  retiring 
<;rowd  suddenly  parted  at  a  sign  from 
old  Peter  Cottle,  the  only  person  who 
did  not  look  surprised,  and  a  swaying, 
flashing  mass  rushed  out  from  the 
northern  lane  into  the  sun,  whose  rays, 
now  nearly  level,  turned  the  following 
•dust-cloud  into  a  fiery  mist,  and  the 
weapons  seen  through  it  into  change- 
ful lightnings  ;  and  as  the  thundering 
mass  came  forth  it  took  form,  and 
spread  out  into  a  front  of  half-a-dozen 
men-at-arms,  whose  spears  all  came 
down  to  the  rest  with  one  click  and 
remained  there  with  terrible  exactness 
•of  dressing.  In  the  centre  was  the 
well-known  blazon  of  Trevanion,  and 
beside  it  was  a  black  armour  of  out- 
landish fashion  marvellously  wrought. 
But  indeed  there  was  no  time  to  study 
these  niceties,  for  it  seemed  to  every 
•one  of  the  archdeacon's  and  the  sheriff's 
people  that  a  horse  and  man  were 
specially  intent  on  riding  him  down, 
and  the  point  of  a  long  spear  was 
<joming  straight  into  his  own  particu- 
lar face ;  and  besides,  as  every  one  of 
them  thought  in  the  same  fraction  of 
a  second,  it  was  but  a  scurvy  quarrel 
for  an  Englishman  to  peril  his  head  in. 
So  there  was  a  feeble  scattering  flight 
of  arrows  and  maybe  a  score  of  stones 
thrown,  and  then  the  powers  ecclesias- 
tical and  temporal  did  what  half-dis- 
<?iplined  levies  charged  home  by  trained 
cavalry  have  always  done  and  always 
will  do  so  long  as  there  is  fighting  in 
the  world, —  they  fled  in  confusion,  and, 
in  this  case,  in  the  one  direction  open 


to  them.  Only  the  coast  road  by  which 
they  had  reached  the  village  was  now 
cut  off  by  the  spring  tide.  Nothing 
was  left  for  it  but  surrender,  and  they 
had  not  even  the  satisfaction  of  yield- 
ing themselves  to  men  of  worship.  It 
was  Peter  Cottle  who  received  theii- 
submission  with  a  serene  chuckle  and 
took  measures  for  their  immediate  safe 
keeping,  the  strange  knight  in  the 
black  armour  looking  on  with  silent 
approval. 

A  well-grown  boy,  almost  of  age  to 
bear  arms,  came  riding  sharply  down 
with  two  or  three  of  the  men  and 
called  to  the  knight :  "  Sir  Luke,  we 
have  need  of  you  up  at  the  Manor. 
Come  and  see  to  father." 

"  What,  Sir  Guy  hurt  1 "  said  the 
other.  **  I  lost  him  in  the  press,  and 
thought  he  had  stayed  to  order  matters 
up  there.  It  is  not  grave  ?  I  knew 
not  any  of  us  had  taken  harm." 

"  I  pray  not,  sir,"  answered  the  boy, 
**  but  I  cannot  tell.  You  know  he  was 
riding  with  his  iron  cap  ;  he  would  not 
put  on  a  helm  for  this  gear ;  a  stone 
caught  him  on  the  head,  and  they  took 
him  up  senseless.  They  say  you  have 
learnt  much  skill  among  the  Moors." 

"  Nay,  with  or  without  skill  I  must 
be  at  my  companion's  side.  I  suppose 
these  good  folk  will  keep  sufficient 
ward  ;.and  so^  my  young  friend,  take 
me  back  with  you." 

"No  fear  for  that.  Master  Walter 
and  Sir  Knight,"  said  Cottle.  "  We'll 
warrant  you  for  they  varmint." 

II. 

"  'Tis  nothing.  Lord  be  praised  there- 
for," said  Jenifer  Datcher,  looking  up, 
as  Walter  Trevanion  and  Sir  Luke 
entered  the  half-lighted  hall,  from 
where  she  was  bending  over  Sir  Guy. 
"  'Twould  never  have  mazed  'en  so,  but 
'a  rode  in  the  heat  fasting." 

Sir  Luke  made  a  rapid  inspection, 
nodded  approval  of  Jenifer's  very 
simple  treatment,  and  produced  a  silver 
flask  from  which  he  sprinkled  a  few 
drops  on  Sir  Guy's  face.  As  their 
heads  showed  together  in  the  light  of 


Sir  MichaeL 


305 


Jenifer's  candle,  a  stranger  would  have 
thought  that  an  English  host  was 
tending  his  foreign  guest,  for  Sir  Guy 
was  as  dark  as  many  men  of  southern 
lands,  and  Sir  Luke  was  of  that  square- 
built  and  fair-complexioned  North 
Italian  type  which  still  bears  witness 
to  the  faithfulness  of  Fra  Angelico's 
pencil.  The  unknown  fluid  spread  a 
subtle  and  refreshing  perfume.  Jenifer 
looked  on  in  sincere  admiration,  Lady 
Trevanion  with  delight,  Walter  and 
the  other  children  with  a  mixture  of 
joy,  curiosity,  and  fear. 

'^  Yes,"  said  Sir  Luke,  **  there  are 
things  to  be  learnt  from  these  Infidels. 
And  they  fought  like  gentlemen  too. 
He  is  coming  round."  In  a  few 
moments  Sir  Guy  opened  his  eyes, 
raised  himself  on  his  hands,  and  be- 
gan to  speak. 

"  Have  'ee  got  an  apple,  sonnies  ? 

West  -  country     fruit,    west  -  country 

speech, — better   than    all   the    golden 

pomegranates  of  Spain.    What's  that  ? 

In  the  nick  of  time,  brother  Luke,  to 

learn    archdeacons    to    archidiaconise 

here, — good  hap  that  I  sent  on  that 

messenger  !     Well  thought  on,  Lucy  ; 

a  good  device,  and  of  a  true  soldier's 

wife ;  I  could  not  better  it ;  ay,  hold 

them    in    talk  a  while,  hold    them   in 

talk — What,  Walter,  wilt    ride    with 

us]     A   good    boy    and    well    grown 

since    I    saw   thee,  but  too  young, — 

what,   not    be   gainsaid  ?      Take    him 

then,  Gilbert,  and  have  a  good  care  of 

him, — shalt  see  if  the  story-books  say 

true  that  Cornish  knights  be  men  of 

no    worth.      Forward,    men !    ah,    see 

the  fat  sompnour  run, — eleu  in  there  ! 

fetch  'en  out  !      Jenifer's  safe  enough. 

But  you  are  Jenifer — and  where   am 

1 1     They   never  stood    up  to  us,  the 

rogues.     All  friends  here, — and  yet  I 

seem  to  have  come  by  a  clout  on  the 

head." 

A  few  words  from  Lady  Trevanion 
and  Sir  Luke,  and  the  ministration, 
this  time  inwardly,  of  some  other 
strange  liquor,  restored  Sir  Guy  to 
full  consciousness.  "Well,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  dreamt  goodly  dreams ;  some- 
thing belike  of  the  tales  Sir  Luke  and 
No.  388. — VOL.  Lxv. 


I  had  been  telling  on  board  ship, — 1 
know  not.     But  who  be  these  1 " 

Dick  Pengelly  with  two  or  three 
companions  now  came  forward,  having 
been  sent  up  by  Peter  Cottle  to  report 
and  take  further  orders.  After  being 
assured  that  his  lord  was  doing  well  * 
and  could  hear  him,  Pengelly  ex- 
plained the  situation  in  language 
which,  for  the  reader's  ease  and 
patience,  must  be  freely  abridged  and 
reduced  to  book  English. 

*'  Some  of  us  were  for  holding  a 
court  upon  'en,  me  being  the  reeve, 
so  please  you,  and  the  less  writing  the 
better,  we  said,  for  if  so  be  we  had 
one  that  was  a  book  schollard  and 
could  keep  a  roll,  'twould  only  be 
twisted  some  way  against  us  if  ever  it 
came  to  'sizes ;  but  Peter  Cottle  did 
say  'twould  n't  be  any  justiceable  sort 
of  rights  without  Sir  Guy  there,  so  we 
thought  'twas  a  pity  to  have  nothing 
to  tell  'ee,  and  we  handselled  'en  some 
such  rights  as  might  seem  belonging 
by  nature,  till  you  could  serve  'en  out 
proper  justice." 

"  Paid  in  their  own  money,"  said 
Sir  Luke,  "  sine  Jigura  et  strepitu 
judicUy 

"  We  could  never  pay  'en  with  no 
Latin,"  continued  Dick ;  "  but  the 
bailiff,  being  one  that  in  a  manner 
serves  the  King,  and  that  we'd  no 
such  bitter  quarrel  with,  we  gave  'en 
his  choice  fair  and  plain,  to  be  rolled 
in  a  vuzzy  vaggot  or  to  dang  bishop 
and  archdaken.  So  'a  zaid  out  like 
a  true  man,  that  I  could  like  'en  well 
for  it  all  my  life  days,  'twould  have 
been  meat  and  drink  to  him,  saving 
the  virtue  of  his  office,  if  'a  could  have 
danged  'en  out  loud  these  vower  hours 
and  more  ;  and  so  'a  did  most  free 
and  cheerful.  And  then  we  broft  'en 
with  joy  and  gladness  into  the  Blue 
Dragon,  as  the  sinner  that  repenteth, 
and  zet  'en  down  with  a  cup  of  good 
zider.  And  the  sompnour,  being  of  a 
more  black-hearted  and  dangerous 
fashion,  and  'customed  to  bite  man- 
kind, we  let  'en  bide  safe  in  stocks  for 
to  know  your  honour's  pleasure." 
"All   very  well  done,"  said   Lady 


306 


Sir  Michael, 


Trevanion,  after  a  consultation  with 
Sir  Guy.  "  My  husband  bids  me 
speak  for  him,  and  thank  you  all. 
You  may  bring  up  the  sompnour  here 
in  an  hour  or  so  ;  our  friend  Sir  Luke 
is  almost  as  good  a  clerk  as  a  knight, 
and  would  fain  say  some  profitable 
words  to  him.  Let  the  sheriff's  men 
have  a  drink  of  cider  all  round,  and 
our  free  peace ;  they  had  little  stomach 
for  this  business  from  the  fii'st,  and 
will  have  none  to  begin  again.  And 
so,  good  speed ! " 

In  a  short  time  Sir  Guy,  who 
really  needed  rest  and  food  more  than 
anything  else,  was  pretty  much  him- 
self again,  and  the  children,  who  were 
a  little  disappointed  that  he  had  not 
brought  home  at  least  five  Moorish 
kings  in  golden  chains,  began  to  ques- 
tion him  about  his  campaigns.  Lady 
Trevanion,  however,  supported  by 
Jenifer  and  Sir  Luke,  insisted  on  Sir 
Guy  not  being  called  on  for  his  ad- 
ventures till  the  morrow.  "Well 
then,  father,"  said  Hugh,  the  second 
boy,  lifting  up  his  large  blue  eyes 
from  those  of  the  hound  Bruno,  with 
whom  he  had  been  holding  an  intent 
conversation  without  words,  *•'  are  you 
strong  enough  to  tell  us  the  pretty 
things  you  said  you  had  been  dream- 
ing?" 

"  I  think  I  might  do  that,"  said  Sir 
Guy,  "  the  rather  that,  as  I  have  often 
noted  in  such  cases,  I  should  have 
clean  forgotten  my  dream  to-morrow 
morning  if  I  put  off  telling  it."  And 
this  was  the  dream  Sir  Guy  told. 

111. 

"As  we  rode  down  upon  that  rabble 
I  marked  right  in  front  of  me  a  sort 
of  lubberly  half-grown  boy,  and  with 
some  little  ado  I  guided  my  spear  that 
I  might  pass  only  near  enough  to 
frighten  him,  for  I  had  no  mind  to 
shed  blood.  Then  I  saw  that  he  lifted 
a  stone  in  his  hand,  and  I  knew  no 
more  till  I  seemed  to  be  unarmed 
and  alone,  in  a  marvellous  great 
waste  country  under  a  gray  sky. 
Anon  there  came  a  fellowship  riding. 


but  their  going  made  no  sound.  And 
some  rode  as  they  were  princes  and 
great  folk,  dukes  and  bishops  and 
knights  and  ladies  of  worship,  and 
some  as  merchants  and  citizens,  and 
some  as  poor  and  needy  people.  But 
all  was  gray  as  beechen  ashes,  riders 
and  horses  and  apparel,  and  none 
spoke  to  other,  but  ever  they  looked 
one  way,  and  some  were  of  a  mild 
countenance,  and  others  looked  grimly 
as  if  they  loathed  that  journey;  yet 
none  might  turn  back  nor  leave  the 
troop.  Then  I  could  see  a  young  man 
that  rode  beside  them,  and  he  wore  a 
plain  close  hood  upon  his  head,  and 
no  manner  of  arms  nor  ornaments, 
nor  so  much  as  a  staff  in  his  hand. 
But  his  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  cap- 
tain, and  wheresoever  he  signed  with 
his  hand,  there  they  must  needs  all 
go.  So  they  passed  on  and  left  me 
alone.  Then  I  was  ware  how  the 
moor  sloped  downward,  and  in  the 
narrow  valley  there  ran  a  full  dark 
water  in  flood.  And  there  was  a 
bridge  made  all  of  gray  steel,  and  no 
path  thereon,  but  it  came  to  an  edge 
as  keen  as  was  ever  any  Damascus 
blade  that  I  saw  in  Spain  ;  and  I  knew 
that  I  must  cross  that  bridge  or  be 
lost  in  the  flood.  For  so  it  was  in 
that  land  that  none  might  never  turn 
back  whence  he  had  come.  And  as  I 
stood  sore  amazed,  lightly  there  came 
running  along  the  edge  a  ball  of 
golden  thread  spinning  itself  out,  and 
ran  up  into  my  hand  as  it  were  a  live 
thing.  So  I  took  the  thread,  and 
therewith  I  walked  boldly  on  the  edge, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  bridge  I  looked 
down,  and  there  in  the  flood  was  a 
barge  made  fast  by  enchantment,  and 
a  loathly  fiend  therein  which  had  the 
sompnour' s  head,  and  with  a  great 
staff  beat  down  folk  that  strove  to 
lift  their  heads  out  of  the  water.  And 
on  the  other  side  there  sat  an  angel  in 
glory  spinning  the  thread,  but  when 
I  came  nigh  to  her  I  saw  well  that  it 
was  Jenifer  Datcher;  and  straight- 
way all  vanished,  and  I  went  again  a 
long  journeyiDg  over  good  and  bad 
ground,  enduring  divers  perils.     And 


Sir  Michael, 


307 


ever  I  knew  that  my  soul  had  made 
all  that  world  of  mine  own  deeds,  and 
none  other  might  come  near  me  for 
good  or  ill. 

**  At  last  I  came  to  a  place  where 
there  was  a  great  and  deep  mire, 
greater  than  Aune  Head  Mire  on 
Dartmoor ;  and  it  was  a  darkling  light 
so  that  I  could  not  see  where  the 
sound  way  went  through.  Then  I  was 
ware  of  little  shining  creatures  that 
went  crawling  and  hopping  before  me, 
and  by  their  shining  I  followed  on  the 
good  path  ;  and  I  knew  not  what  they 
might  be.  But  one  of  them  spoke  and 
said,  *  Sir,  ye  mind  well  how  ever  ye 
taught  your  children  to  despise  none  of 
God's  creatures,  nor  to  call  none  of 
them  foul  or  ugly;  and  now  we  be 
toads  and  efts  which  they  saved  alive 
according  to  your  will  and  teaching, 
and  therefore  have  we  not  failed  you 
in  this  adventure  whereas  none  other 
help   of   man   or   beast    might    avail 

you.' " 

"Oh,  father,"  interrupted  Ermen- 
gard,  who  was  barely  old  enough  to 
follow  the  thread  of  the  tale,  **we 
have  got  the  two  biggest  and  wisest 
of  all  the  toads  ;  and  you  must  come 
and  see  them  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning ;  and  they  are  so  wise  that 
we  call  them  Archbishop  Morton  and 
Bishop  Fox." 

"  And  who  then  shall  be  arch- 
deacon ?  "  asked  Sir  Guy. 

"  That  is  soon  told,  sir,"  said  Walter. 
"  We  have  taken  the  greediest  and 
most  ill-favoured  of  the  last  little  pigs 
to  be  archdeacon." 

Then  Sir  Guy  continued  : — 

"  When  I  was  past  that  mire  it  was 
clear  day,  and  I  came  to  a  green 
meadow  where  was  a  pavilion,  and 
thereby  stood  a  knight  all  armed,  a 
young  man  of  a  passing  fair  counten- 
ance. His  armour  was  of  blue  steel, 
and  of  the  finest  work  that  ever  might 
be  made  by  any  armourer  of  Milan, 
and  he  was  apparelled  at  all  points  for 
justing ;  and  he  had  a  shield  with  no 
blazon  nor  other  device  upon  it,  save 
only  a  pair  of  golden  balances.  Then 
.said   this  knight  to  me,  *  Fair  knight. 


ye  are  welcome  here,  and  now  shall  ye 
prove  yourself  upon  me,  for  the  cus- 
tom of   this  passage  is  such  that  no 
knight  may  pass  here  but  if  he  just 
with  me.'     *  Sir,'  said  I,  *  ye  see  well 
that  I  am  a  man  forspent  and  unarmed, 
and  methinketh  it  were  small  worship 
for  you  to  have  ado  with  me.'     *As 
for  that,'  said  he,  *  look  if  ye  be  not 
better    apparelled     than     ye     think.* 
Right  so  I  looked  round  me,  and  there 
I  saw  mine  own  armour,  and  my  good 
horse,  and  two  goodly  spears.     Then  I 
thanked  him   of  his    courtesy,    'And 
now,'  I  said,  *  I  will  well  dress  me  for 
to  just  with  you  ;  but  first  I  will  re- 
quire you  to  tell  me  your  name,  and 
what  manner  of  knight  ye  be.'     *  Sir,' 
said  he,  *  I  may  not  now  tell  you  my 
name,  but  ye  may  call  me  the  Knight 
of  the  Balances ;  and  know  that  I  am 
a  knight  that  serve  the  lord  of  all  this 
country,  and  of  such  conditions  that  it 
should  be  no  disworship  to  just  with 
me  for  any  knight   or  prince  that  is 
upon  the  earth.'     *Ye  say  well,'  said 
I,  and   so  I   armed  myself,  and  was 
right  glad  to  feel  my  arms  and  my 
horse  under  me,  and  so  I  departed  to 
gain  my  distance.     But  before  I  could 
make  ready  my  spear,  suddenly  there 
rose  up  out  of  the  earth  between  me 
and  that  knight  as  it  were  a  wall  of 
clear   fire,   hotter   than   any   furnace, 
that  it  flamed  up  to  the  sky  on  either 
hand  as  far  as  ever  I  could  see.     Then 
came   a  voice   that   said,    *  Ride  now 
through  this  fire,  or  be  for  ever  shamed 
and    unworthy  of  knighthood.'     And 
I  looked  on  either  hand  again,   and 
there  were  other  knights  not  a  few 
that  were  dressed  to  ride  likewise,  and 
some  of  them  were  Saracens.     And  I 
heard  them  say  through  all  the  noise 
of  the  fire,  *  Ride  with  a  good  courage, 
for  we  are  all  here  of  your  fellowship.' 
So  I  commended  me  to  God,  and  in 
great  amazement  rode  straight  where 
the  fire  burnt,  and  I  was  in  a  marvel- 
lous great  light,  that  all  my  armour 
glowed  therein,  but  I  passed   out  as. 
whole  as  ever  I  was ;   and  I  looked 
back,  and  where  the  fire  had  been  was 
a  garden  of  the  fairest  roses  and  lilies. 


X  2 


308 


Sir  Michael. 


Then  said  one  of  these  knights,  *  Wit 
ye  well,  Sir  Guy,  tliat  we  be  your 
adversaries  whom  in  your  life  days  ye 
have  fought  knightly  and  courteously 
withal,  and  for  that  cause  have  we 
come  to  do  you  service  in  this  adven- 
ture.* And  with  that  they  were  all 
vanished,  and  there  was  only  that 
young  Knight  of  the  Balances  with 
me.  *  Well,'  said  he,  *  ye  are  well  sped 
with  this  last  adventure,  and  now  1 
dare  say  that  we  two  shall  just  with- 
out fear  of  enchantment  or  other 
hindrance.'  So  we  departed  and 
aventered  our  spears,  and  ran  together 
with  all  the  speed  we  might ;  and  I 
brake  my  spear  fairly  on  that  knight, 
but  for  all  he  was  young  to  look  upon 
and  of  no  great  bigness,  he  justed  so 
mightily  that  he  bore  me  to  the  earth. 
Then  I  avoided  my  horse,  and  drew  my 
sword  to  fight  with  him  on  foot.  But 
he  would  not  suffer  me,  and  came  to 
me  with  his  sword  sheathed,  saying, 
*  Ye  shall  have  no  more  ado  with  me 
to-day,  for  ye  have  done  as  much  as  a 
good  knight  ought ;  and.  Sir  Guy,  if  I 
had  not  well  known  you  1  should 
never  have  bidden  you  to  just  with 
me.  Likewise  ye  shall  understand 
that  I  may  not  with  my  custom  fight 
on  foot  with  you,  for  1  have  drawn 
this  sword  but  once  in  all  time  that 
the  world  was  made,  and  shall  draw  it 
but  once  again  in  a  day  that  I  know 
not  of.'  Then  forthwith  I  was  ware 
that  this  knight  was  Michael  the 
archangel,  and  I  had  great  awe  of  him, 
and  worshipped  him.  But  he  took  me 
by  the  hand  and  made  me  good  cheer, 
and  bade  me  ride  with  him  as  knights 
used  to  ride  in  company  :  ^  For,'  said 
he,  *  I  shall  bring  you  to  my  fellowship 
in  the  King's  court.  And  my  custom 
is  to  just  in  this  manner  with  all  good 
knights  that  have  achieved  the  former 
adventures.' 

"Then  as  we  rode  I  asked  of  Saint 
Michael,  *  Sir,  I  would  know,  if  that 
I  may,  whether  the  like  adventures 
befall  bishops  and  churchmen  and  other 
clerkly  men  as  well  as  knights.  For 
methinketh  it  should  not  be  convenient 
if  bishops  and   abbots  and  other  holy 


men,  which  are  not  nor  ought  not  to  be 
men  of  their  hands,  should  be  enforced 
to  just  with  you.'  *  As  for  bishops 
and  abbots,'  said  Michael,  *  it  may  be 
that  great  plenty  of  them  come  to  our 
court  here,  and  it  may  be  we  have  not 
such  plenty  that  there  must  be  a  rule 
for  them  ;  but  I  shall  tell  you  that  for 
men  of  all  couditions  there  be  appointed 
fitting  adventures,  and  a  clerk  shall  be 
proved  in  clerkly  things  as  ye  were  in 
knightly  things.  And  when  a  great 
clerk  is  come  to  this  passage,  my 
brother  Gabriel  doth  his  office,  and 
that  is  such  that  he  and  some  of  his 
fellowship  come  forth  and  require  that 
clerk  to  dispute  with  them.  And 
many  times  there  be  notable  argu- 
ments holden,  as  at  the  coming  of  your 
countryman  William  of  Occam.  But 
of  all  clerkly  men  that  have  achieved 
this  quest  the  greatest  and  most 
worshipful  cheer  was  made  for  Dante 
of  Florence,  as  ye  may  well  guess  by 
the  vision  that  in  his  lifetime  he  saw.' 

*  Sir  Michael,'  said  I,  *  do  kings  and 
princes  just  even  as  other  knights  and 
so  ride  with  you,  or  have  ye  other 
customs  for  them  1 '     *  Yea,'  said  he, 

*  there  be  pageants  and  Solemnities  for 
just  princes,  after  every  one  hath  ful- 
filled his  adventures  as  a  man  ought, 
for  each  after  his  worth ;  as  for  your 
English  kings  Alfred  and  Edward, 
and  Frederick  the  Emperor  of  the 
Romans  whom  your  clerks  call  stupor 
mundi.^  *  Truly  I  have  heard  tell,* 
said  I,  *  that  this  Frederick  was  a  great 
and  a  wise  prince,  but  also  they  tell 
that  he  died  excommunicate  and  in 
danger  of  Holy  Church.'  ^  Well,'  said 
Sir  Michael,  *  be  that  as  it  may,  if  we 
judged  here  with  popes'  judgment  we 
should  lose  from  our  court  many  noble 
knights  and  princes,  and  wise  clerks, 
and  holy  men  and  women  of  great 
charity,  and  that  were  overmuch  pity. 
Yet  for  other  causes  that  prince  had 
shrewd  adventures  before  he  might 
win  to  the  passage.  And  anon  ye 
shall  see  stranger  things,  for  I  will 
bring  you  where  the  Soldan  Saladin, 
whom  ye  call  an  infidel,  is  companion 
to    Trajan  of  Rome  and   Ehipeus  of 


Sir  Michael. 


309 


Troy  in  the  eye  of  the  eagle  which  is 
in  the  sphere  of  Jupiter.' 

**  Now  we  were  come  to  the  gate  of 
a  goodly  city,  and  outside  the  gate  was 
music  and  men  and  women  dancing 
joyfully,  and  betwixt  every  two  there 
danced  a  blessed  angel,  and  made  them 
all  the  cheer  he  might.  And  their 
wings  were  nob  like  the  wings  of  any 
bird,  but  of  such  colours  as  no  earthly 
craftsman  might  make  with  glass  work 
and  stones  of  price,  not  if  he  were  the 
master  of  all  those  of  Yenice.  Then 
I  marvelled  whether  these  goodly  sights 
were  given  in  like  measure  to  all  who 
might  win  to  that  Holy  City,  or  should 
be  divers  according  to  every  one's  con- 
ditions, for  that  the  sight  of  an  angel 
or  of  a  saint  may  well  be  greater  than 
a  simple  knight's  wisdom  may  com- 
pass or  his  strength  may  endure.  *  Sir 
Guy,'  said  Michael  (although  I  had  not 
spoken),  *  of  that  ye  have  good  reason 
to  marvel,  albeit  I  may  not  fully  show 
you  the  truth  thereof  at  this  time. 
But  wit  ye  well  that  according  to  our 
degrees  we  see  after  other  manners 
than  men  in  your  mortal  life  see,  and 
that  is  upon  earth  as  well  as  here. 
For  I  could  bring  you  in  houses  of 
religion  where  ye  should  see  a  plain 
brother  in  a  bare  cell,  it  may  be 
writing  in  a  book,  and  it  may  be 
painting  on  the  wall,  and  in  our  sight 
he  is  a  saint  in  passing  great  glory, 
and  a  host  of  angels  ministering  to 
him.  And  many  times  where  ye  see 
men  oppressed  of  princes  and  great 
lords,  and  forjudged  of  treason  and 
heresy,  and  finding  no  place  to  rest, 
there  in  the  sight  of  the  blessed  these 
be  princes  of  great  estate,  and  the 
oppressors  mean  and  foul  to  behold. 
And  now,'  said  he,  *must  I  depart 
from  you,  for  ye  be  full  young  in  the 
things  ye  ought  to  learn,  and  my 
brother  Raphael,  who  led  the  child 
Tobias,  shall  lead  you  into  the  city.* 
Then  I  perceived  at  the  entering  of 
the  gate  another  angel  unarmed,  and 
he  was  of  the  most  loving  countenance 
and  the  most  full  of  peace  and  charity 
to  all  people  that  ever  might  be  seen 
or  thought.     And  he  took  me  by  the 


hand,  and  I  saw  no  more  shape  or 
countenance  of  him,  but  only  a  great 
light,  as  if  the  heaven  were  covered 
in  every  part  with  stars  as  clear  as 
the  sun,  the  which  light  was  made  of 
the  angels  and  archangels  and  blessed 
souls;  and  as  their  lights  moved  and 
shone,  meseemed  I  understood  in  them 
without  any  wotd  spoken  more  mys- 
teries than  ever  all  the  clerks  of  Ox- 
ford and  Paris  could  set  forth  in  their 
books  if  they  should  all  write  for  siBven 
years.  Moreover  there  was  sung 
SomcticSf  aanctus,  sanctuSy  Dominus 
Deu8  Sabaoth,  with  such  quiring  and 
such  instruments  of  music  as  I  deemed 
not  mortal  ears  could  have  heard. 
With  that  I  knew  I  was  not  yet 
worthy  to  achieve  that  glorious  quest 
to  the  uttermost,  and  so  I  awoke  into 
this  present  world.  But  the  music  of 
the  Sanctua  seemed  still  in  mine  ears, 
and  peradventure,  if  it  shall  so  please 
God,  in  time  to  come  some  man  that 
is  worthy  shall  hear  it  more  perfectly, 
and  have  such  cunning  of  music  that 
he  may  set  it  down,  and  such  device 
of  instruments  that  he  may  let  play  it 
withal." 


IV. 

**Father,"  said  Hugh,  "do  you  think 
Saint  Michael  will  really  just  with  us 
in  heaven  if  we  are  good  knights? " 

"  If  you  live  as  long  as  I  hope  you 
will,  my  sons,"  answered  Sir  Guy, 
"  perhaps  you  may  rather  have  to 
shoot  with  him  in  a  hand-gun." 

"What!"  protested  Walter,  "the 
blessed  Michael  touch  a  thing  that 
burns  foul  stinking  powder,  and  slays 
a  knight  unawares  like  a  knave  !  Jf 
it  were  honest  shooting  at  butts,  now, 
I  am  sure  even  an  archangel  might 
shoot  a  good  round  without  any  dis- 
worship.  And  then,  under  your  favour. 
Sir  Luke,  I  think  for  execution  in  the 
field  I  would  choose  a  stout  archer 
who  can  loose  me  half-a-dozen  arrows 
while  your  gunner  is  fumbling  with 
his  tackle  to  make  ready  for  one 
shot." 

"  You  shall  hear  to-morrow,"  said 


310 


Sir  MichaeL 


Sir  Guy,  "  how  Francisco  Ramirez 
persuaded  us  otherwise  at  the  siege  of 
Malaga." 

"  Yes,"  added  Sir  Luke,  "  I  love  a 
good  armour  and  a  good  sword  as  well 
as  any  man ;  but  our  fathers*  armour 
is  already  old-fashioned,  and  who  knows 
what  the  next  generation  will  think 
of  ours  1     I  talked  once  in  Milan  with 
a  singular  good  craftsman,  a  man  of 
such   skill  in  many  masteries  as  God 
sends  once  in  hundreds  of  years ;  his 
name     is     Leonardo,     a     painter,     a 
worker  in  metals,  I  know   not  what 
else.     His  thoughts  have  run  much  on 
martial  devices,  and  he  told  me  his 
judgment  that  our  sons  will  live,  if 
we  do  not,  to  see  these  same  hand- 
guns change   the  face   of   war.     For 
bows  and  arrows  may  never  be  any 
stronger  or  better  than  they  are,  but 
guns  will  be  bettered  in  every  genera- 
tion, and  ways  will  be  found  to  make 
them  shoot  quicker  and  straighter  as 
well  as  stronger,  and  soon  there  will 
be  no  armour  man  can  bear  that  will 
withstand  their  shot.    And  so  our  fine 
armourers'  work,  in  which  we  excel 
all  former  ages,  is  like  to  be  found  a 
vain   thing   even   when   it   has    been 
brought  to  perfection." 

**Well,  Sir  Luke,  I  will  pray  that 
Saint  Michael,  if  he  does  take  to  new 
weapons,  may  still  keep  his  tilting- 
armour  by  him,  and  a  spear  or  two  to 
break  with  old-fashioned  folk." 

"But  may  it  not  be.  Sir  Luke," 
said  Hugh,  "  that  if  we  give  up  heavy 
armour  there  will  be  all  the  more 
room  for  good  sword-play?" 

""Well  thought  on,  my  son,"  an- 
swered Sir  Guy,  "  the  guns  are  there, 
and  we  must  take  them  for  better  or 
worse;  but  you  may  yet  see  the  dis- 
comfiture of  armour  bring  about  the 
triumph  of  the  sword." 

The  talk  was  interrupted  by  •  the 
appearance  of  Cottle  and  Pengelly 
bringing  up  the  body  of  the  sadly 
crestfallen  sompnour.  He  began  a 
voluble  and  rambling  speech  in  which 
protestation  and  servility  were  hope- 
lessly mixed. 

"  Good  fellow,"  said  Sir  Guy,  "  there 


is  no  need.  T  shall  only  desire  you  to 
give  your  company  apart  for  a  short 
space  to  this  knight,  my  friend  and 
guest.  He  is  a  stranger,  and  curious 
to  know  more  of  the  admirable  pro- 
cedure of  our  Court  Christian  in 
England." 

A  short  quarter  of  an  hour  had 
passed  when  the  sompnour  rushed 
back  into  the  hall  pale  and  breathless, 
and  threw  himself  at  Sir  Guy's  feet. 

"As  you  are  a  Christian  knight^ 
sir  ! — for  that  I  never  gainsaid — in 
the  way  of  grace  and  charity,  and  I 
will  ever  pray  for  you,  bid  this  man 
undo  his  charms.  He  hath  laid  spells 
upon  me ;  I  am  a  man  undone  ;  they 
are  in  a  tongue  of  Mahound  and  all 
the  devils ;  Latin  will  never  bite  on 
it.  You  will  not  see  a  poor  servant 
of  the  Church  wither  before  your  eyes  ! 
A  counter-charm,  there  is  nothing  for 
it  but  a  counter-charm !  St.  Nectan 
and  St.  Just  forgive  me  if  there  be 
any  sin  ;  I  perish  else.  At  your  mercy 
in  any  fair  way  of  temporal  reprisals,, 
good  Sir  Guy,  but  not  those  fearful 
words." 

The  host  signed  consent  to  Sir  Luke,, 
who  had  followed  more  leisurely,  and 
who  now  planted  himself  before  the 
sompnour.  Fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
sompnour's,  and  passing  his  hands 
over  the  sompnour's  head  with  a  kind 
of  reversing  motion.  Sir  Luke  spoke 
thus  in  a  solemn  voice  :  "  Rafel — aUez. 
— mai — avec  votre  archidiacre — a/mech 
— au  tresgrand — zabi — diable — alrrti — 
sans  jour.  In  onomate  Nemhroth  et  Nor- 
huchodonosor  liber amus  istwm  hominefm 
desicut  herebi  mac/icera  non  pertrcmsibit 


eum. 


The  sompnour  recovered  his  self- 
possession  in  a  moment.  **Sir  Guy," 
said  he  in  his  natural  or  rather  usual 
manner,  "  for  your  courtesy  in  this 
matter  much  thanks  ;  protesting  never- 
theless, as  a  humble  apparitor  and  ser- 
vant of  the  Church,  and  reserving  to 
my  superiors  all  competent  jurisdic- 
tion over  the  divers  assaults,  con- 
tempts, and  other  enormities  this  day 
committed  against  authority  both. 
spiritual  and  temporal.      -And  I  would 


Sir  Michael. 


311 


warn  you  in  all  friendship,  as  a  poor 
man  may,  that  this  strange  knight 
puts  you  in  danger  of  being  noted  for 
keeping  company  with  one  that  is 
little  better  than  an  infidel." 

An  explosion  of  laughter  was  the 
reward  of  this  official  virtue. 

"As  for  infidels,"  said  Sir  Luke, 
"  you  may  tell  your  masters  that  Sir 
Guy  and  I  have  slain  and  captured 
more  of  them  in  these  three  years  than 
any  archdeacon  in  England  has  seen 
or  is  like  to  see  dead  or  alive." 

"  You  may  tell  them  also,"  said  Sir 
Guy,  "  that  I  bear  special  letters  from 
King  Ferdinand  to  our  good  lord  Eang 
Henry,  and  if  either  bishop  or  arch- 
deacon have  a  grievance  against  my 
guest  or  me,  they  may  find  us  at  the 
King's  court  within  the  octave  of  St. 
Matthias  if  they  will.  And  now  my 
people  will  give  you  some  supper  ;  but 
I  answer  for  nothing  if  you  let  your- 
self be  seen  here  again." 


Next  morning  Sir  Luke  had  a  long 
talk  with  Jenifer  Datcher.  Afterwards, 
as  he  was  showing  the  boys  some 
Moorish  feats  of  horsemanship,  Hugh 
suddenly  turned  upon  him :  "  Sir  Luke, 
will  you  tell  me  a  thing  1 " 

"  Surely,"  he  answered,  "  if  I  know 
it  and  it  be  lawful  for  me  to  tell." 

"Then  was  it  really  very  dreadful 
language  that  you  astounded  the  somp- 
nour  with  1 " 

"He  was  partly  right,"  said  Sir 
Luke;  "it  was  indeed  the  tongue  of 
Mahound ;  nothing  worse  than  good 
Arabic." 

And  that  was  perfectly  true.  But 
it  is  certain  that  Jenifer  had  not  time 
to  learn  Arabic  from  Sir  Luke,  and 
that  her  cures  in  the  village  were 
thenceforth     more    remarkable    than 


ever. 


Frederick  Pollock. 


312 


NATIONAL    PENSIONS. 


The  cause  of  National  Pensions  has 
long  been  advocated  by  avowed  So- 
cialists, who  look  for  the  realisation  of 
an  ideal  not  unlike  that  of  Plato's 
Republic.  But  it  is  only  within  the 
past  year  that  the  matter  has  attracted 
the  attention  of  politicians  and  has 
entered  upon  the  phase  of  practical 
discussion. 

The  arguments  for  a  scheme  of 
National  Pensions  are  very  simple. 
We  have  merely  to  look  around  us  in 
order  to  see  persons  of  apparent  re- 
spectability who  have  been  left  in  old 
age  without  any  means  of  subsistence. 
There  is  no  certain  provision  for  them 
except  the  workhouse  or  a  few  shil- 
lings a  week  doled  out  by  the  parish. 
The  Poor-Law  system,  we  are  told, 
causes  unnecessary  suffering  and  is 
out  of  keeping  with  the  humanity  of 
the  present  age  ;  it  is  therefore  the 
duty  of  the  State  to  provide  some 
other  machinery  for  the  protection  of 
the  poor  from  destitution. 

To  this  contention  the  upholders  of 
the  present  Poor-Law  reply  as  follows. 
The  promise  of  support  in  old  age 
necessarily  removes  the  most  powerful 
incentive  to  work  and  to  thrift.  Our 
social  system  is  based  on  the  assump- 
tion that  all  should  rely  for  their 
maintenance  upon  their  own  efforts. 
But  we  revolt  from  condemning  any 
one  to  starvation.  The  Poor-Law  is 
a  concession  to  humanity,  but  must 
not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  those 
influences  on  whose  operation  the  wel- 
fare of  the  community  at  large  de- 
pends. It  offers  food  and  shelter  and 
clothing  to  the  destitute ;  but  the 
conditions  of  relief  laid  down  by  the 
Law  must  be  strictly  adhered  to,  and 
the  life  of  dependence  upon  public 
charity  must  never  be  made  as  attract- 
ive as  that  which  the  lowest  independ- 
ent labourer  can  provide  for  himself. 


Experience  has  shown  that  this  condi- 
tion can  be  properly  preserved  only 
by  offering  relief  in  the  workhouse. 

The  advocates  of  the  new  departure 
aduiit  the  general  truth  of  their 
opponents'  contention ;  but  they  say 
that  the  Poor-Law  has  come  to  be  in 
fact  not  merely  the  asylum  of  those 
who  have  failed  in  life  through  their 
own  fault,  but  also  the  only  home 
to  which  the  industrious  poor  can 
look  forward  with  certainty  if  they 
live  to  old  age.  These,  they  say, 
have  a  positive  claim  to  some  better 
provision. 

The  case  has  been  put  most  forcibly 
by  Mr.  Chamberlain,  and,  as  it  seems 
to  me  that  two  radical  fallacies  under- 
lie his  position,  it  becomes  necessary 
to   consider   it    somewhat   in     detail. 
He  asserts  that  "  one  in  two  of  the 
labouring  class,  if  he  reaches  the  .age 
of  sixty,  is  almost  certain  to  come  for 
his  subsistence  to   the  Poor-Law."     I 
wish    first    to    call   attention   to    the 
words  which  I  have  italicised.      Mr. 
Chamberlain's   figures   are  ultimately 
based   upon   returns    of    old-age   pau- 
perism, obtained  about  a  year  ago  by 
Mr.  Burt.     This  document  shows  the 
number  of   persons  (exclusive  of  va- 
grants,   lunatics,    and    certain    other 
paupers),  professedly  over  sixty  years 
of  age,  who  were,  on  August  1st,  1890, 
in  receipt  of  relief  from  the  Poor-Law 
in  England  and  Wales.  But  Mr.  Burt's 
return  makes  no  allowance  for  those 
in  receipt  of  mere  medical  relief.   Now, 
medical  relief  is  an  item  by  which  the 
number     of     paupers    is    enormously 
swelled.     In  1890  the  average  number 
of  paupers   in  London  was    106,000  ; 
in    the    same    year   the    number    of 
medical   orders    issued   was*  119,000. 
A  return  of  paupers  which   includes 
those  who  have  received  nothing  ex- 
cept some  trifling  medical  relief,  which 


Natimial   Pensions, 


313 


thev  would  have  obtained  elsewhere 
if  the  parish  office  had  not  been 
handv,  is  not  very  instructive.  The 
receipt  of  a  bottle  of  medicine  can 
scarcely  be  held  to  prove  that  the 
recipient  needs  a  pension,  and  Mr. 
Burt's  return  does  not  prove  that  a 
single  individual  has  come  upon  the 
]*oor-Law ybr  his  subsistence. 

The  second  objection  which  I  take 
to  Mr.  Chamberlain's  statement  is  of 
much  more  vital  importance.  He  as- 
sumes that  because  at  the  present 
time  a  certain  percentage  of  the 
labouring  classes  may  be  in  receipt  of 
parish  relief,  the  same  proportion  of 
paupers  to  the  population  will  neces- 
sarily hold  good  in  the  future.  To 
a<5sert  this  is  to  deny  that  the  diminu- 
tion in  ordinary  pauperism  which  has 
taken  place  in  the  past  will  continue, 
and  to  deny  the  possibility  of  im- 
proved administration.  In  those 
Unions  where  the  administration  has 
been  most  strict  and  consistent  the  de- 
crease has  been  most  marked  and  most 
rapid.  1  No  one  can  doubt  the  truth 
of  this  who  has  studied  the  history  of 
such  Unions  as  those  of  Brix worth 
and  of  Bradfield  in  Berkshire.  The 
experience  of  Bradfield  is  so  material 
to  our  question  that  I  venture  to 
quote  a  few  figures  relating  to  that 
Union.  The  district  is  mainly  agri- 
cultural, and  the  rate  of  wages  which 
rules  there  is  low.  No  great  indus- 
trial change  has  taken  place  there 
in  recent  times,  and  the  only  exceptional 
advantage  which  it  has  enjoyed  has 
been  the  presence  of  certain  gentlemen 
who  for  twenty  years  have  devoted 
their  time  to  a  careful  administration 
of  the  Poor-Law.  In  1871  the  num- 
ber of  persons  receiving  relief  was 
1,258;    in    1888  it    was    192.      This 

*  By  strict  administration  is  meant  th6 
refusal  of  out-door  relief  to  applicants  (not 
already  in  receipt  of  it)  except  in  special  cases, 
and  for  very  limited  periods.  The  main  ob- 
jects of  this  ])oUcy  are  (1)  To  render  the 
prospect  of  parish  relief  unattractive  ;  (2)  To 
prevent  applications  from  those  who  are  not 
really  destitute.  Experience  has  proved  the 
impossibility,  at  any  rate  in  towns,  of  ascer- 
taining an  applicant's  real  sources  of  income. 


diminution  took  place  in  the  number 
of  in-door  as  well  as  out-door  paupers, 
their  numjbers  falling  from  i^59  to  150. 
We  may  add  that  during  the  same 
period  the  poor-rate  fell  from  2s.  0\d.  in 
the  pound  to  5|c?.  The  reduction  of  out- 
relief  has  been  effected  gradually,  the  old 
recipients  being  allowed  to  retain  it ; 
and  there  is  therefore  reason  to  hope 
that  in  another  generation  the  pau- 
peiism  will  be  very  much  reduced..  In 
1871  one  person  in  13  in  Bradfield 
was  a  pauper ;  in  1888  it  was  one 
in  126.  Yet  any  person  visiting 
Bradfield  in  1871  and  observing  the 
number  of  paupers  then  to  be  found 
in  the  Union  would,  if  he  adopted 
Mr.  Chamberlain's  method  of  reason- 
ing, have  expected  to  find  in  1888 
one  person  in  13  a  pauper.  And  if 
on  the  strength  of  this  inference  he 
had  tampered  with  the  administration 
of  the  Poor-Law  his  anticipation 
would  possibly  have  been  justified  by 
the  result. 

The  lesson  of  the  Bradfield  Union  is 
repeated  wherever  the  Poor-Law  has 
been  carefully  administered.  In  towns, 
of  course,  the  conditions  of  life  are 
more  complex  than  in  rural  Unions, 
and  the  task  of  relating  causes  and 
effects  to  each  other  is  more  difficult ; 
but  if  carefully  read  the  history  of 
such  Unions  as  Whitechapel  and  St. 
George's  -  in  -  the  -  East  confirms  the 
soundness  of  the  policy  pursued  at 
Bradfield. 

The  new  school  of  reformers  have  a 
r6ady  reply  to  the  figures  which  I 
have  quoted.  They  do  not  deny  that 
a  strict  administration  of  the  Poor-Law 
results  in  a  reduction  of  official  pauper- 
ism, but  they  assert  that  the  apparent 
reduction  is  accompanied  by  a  real  in- 
crease of  distress.  The  poor  hate  the 
workhouse,  they  say,  and  prefer  starva- 
tion to  life  within  its  walls,  and  the 
refusal  of  out-relief  necessarily  leads 
to  great  distress.  Here  I  join  issue 
with  them.  The  evidence  at  our  com- 
mand is  clear.  Once  more  the  Brad- 
field Union  supplies  us  with  the  infor- 
mation which  we  want.  Throughout 
the  whole  period  of  strict  administra- 


314 


National   Pensions. 


tion,  side  by  side  with  a  diminution  in 
the  number  of  paupers  there  has  been 
a  constant  improvement  in  the  con- 
dition of  the  independent  labourer. 
This  is  not  merely  the  statement  of 
such  gentlemen  as  Mr.  Bland  Garland, 
who  speaks  from  a  long  personal  ex- 
perience, but  whose  judgment  might 
be  supposed  to  be  biassed  in  favour 
of  a  policy  which  he  has  always 
strongly  advocated.  The  assertion  is 
borne  out  by  the  observation  of  a 
large  majority  of  the  clergy  in  the 
district.  If  we  accept  their  evidence, 
and  to  my  mind  it  is  unimpeachable, 
the  labouring  classes  in  the  district  are 
generally  better  housed,  better  clothed, 
and  more  self-respecting  than  they 
were  when  out-relief  was  given  lavishly. 
They  have  not  starved  by  its  with- 
drawal. So  far  from  this — to  take  a 
definite  test  of  well-being — the  mem- 
bership of  sick-clubs  has  within  the 
period  increased  152  per  cent.,  and 
that  of  Friendly  Societies  148  per 
cent. 

The  Poor-Law  is  sometimes  made 
the  subject  of  attack  on  the  part  of 
well-meaning  persons,  like  the  coroner 
for  East  London,  on  the  ground  that 
its  existence  does  not  prevent  the 
occurrence  of  cases  of  actual  starva- 
tion. It  is  the  unhappy  truth  that 
such  cases  are  met  with  here  and 
there ;  but  the  fact  which  chiefly  im- 
presses the  student  of  the  annual 
returns  of  cases  in  which  a  coroner's 
jury  have  found  a  verdict  of  "  Death 
from  Starvation,''  is  that  their  num- 
ber is  so  small  in  proportion  to  the 
population.  It  is,  indeed,  because  they 
are  so  few  that  each  instance  attracts, 
and  rightly  attracts,  so  much  notice. 
They  would  occur  under  any  system. 
The  Poor-Law  offers  shelter  to  every 
destitute  person  ;  but  we  cannot  pre- 
vent individuals  from  refusing  even  in 
the  last  resort  the  conditions  under 
which  the  relief  is  necessarily  given, 
any  more  than  we  can  prevent  suicide 
on  the  part  of  those  who  refuse  to  ac- 
cept the  conditions  of  existence  under 
which  their  lot  is  cast.  Those  who 
perish  from  want  and  exposure  gene- 


rally prove  to  have  been  recipients  of 
irregular  legal  and  charitable  relief, 
which  has  tempted  them  to  refuse 
until  too  late  the  shelter  of  the  work- 
house. An  impartial  consideration  of 
the  history  of  the  Poor-Law  is  bound 
to  lead  to  the  conclusion  that  on  the 
whole  it  fairly  performs  the  function 
which  it  was  intended  to  fulfil, — the  re- 
lief of  destitution.  If  it  does  not  offer 
the  pauper  an  attractive  prospect,  it 
was  never  intended  to  do  so.  That  the 
poor  should  have  the  means  of  spend- 
ing their  last  years  in  comfort  is  as 
much  the  desire  of  such  men  as  Mr. 
Bland  Garland  as  of  the  most  advanced 
Socialist ;  but  it  is  not  to  State-sup- 
port that  they  should  look  for  the 
means  of  doing  so. 

In  spite  of  the  evidence  to  which  we 
have  referred  there  are  many  who  re- 
fuse to  believe  that  it  is  possible  for 
the  poorest  class,  even  by  the  exercise 
of  the  sternest  thrift,  to  provide  for  a 
prolonged  old  age,  or  at  any  rate  to  do 
so  except  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  recrea- 
tion and  of  everything  that  makes  life 
worth  living.  It  is  useless,  we  are 
told,  to  appeal  to  the  experience  of  the 
past.  Our  forefathers  subsisted  with- 
out pensions,  but  their  maintenance  in 
old  age  was  too  often  not  such  as  we 
should  now  deem  satisfactory.  More- 
over the  general  standard  of  living  is 
much  higher  now  than  at  any  previous 
period,  and  we  cannot  expect,  nor  do 
we  think  it  desirable,  that  the  work- 
ing man  should,  during  his  years  of 
work,  live  as  his  ancestors  lived.  The 
report  of  the  Belgian  Labour  Com- 
mission leaves  no  room  for  doubt  that 
in  Belgium  and  Holland  labourers  and 
artisans  of  every  class  live  on  a  much 
lower  scale  than  those  of  our  own 
country.  They  eat  less  meat,  drink 
less  alcohol,  live  in  more  crowded  rooms, 
and  spend  less  on  dress  and  recreation. 
But  to  live  as  the  foreigner  lives  would 
be  intolerable  to  an  Englishman,  and 
we  cannot  expect  him  to  do  so.  The 
question  we  have  to  answer  is  this : 
Can  he  by  reasonable  effort  and  self- 
denial,  without  making  his  working 
life  unbearable,  save  enough   in  any 


National  Pensions, 


315 


form  to  make  provision  for  his  old 
age] 

The  experience  of  Friendly  Societies 
in  the  matter  of  insurance  against 
old  age  does  not  at  first  sight  appear 
encouraging.  Wherever  they  have  not 
been  misled  by  the  prospect  of  help  in 
sickness  from  the  parish  or  from  medi- 
cal charities,  the  working-men  have 
formed  themselves  into  Friendly  So- 
cieties, and  have  shown  that  they  can 
with  tolerable  certainty,  provide 
against  distress  caused  by  sickness. 
In  1890  the  Manchester  Unity  of  Odd- 
fellows comprised  673,073  members, 
and  the  Ancient  Order  of  Foresters, 
623,505.  The  total  of  sick-allowance 
paid  by  the  two  Societies  in  that  year 
amounted  to  14,000,000  days,  while  in 
1889  the  Hearts  of  Oak  paid  1,300,000 
days.  Some  of  the  old  Trades-TJ  nions 
have  been  able  to  pension  members 
after  a  certain  age,  but  we  do  not  find 
that  the  Friendly  Societies  are  able  to 
deal  satisfactorily  with  the  poverty  of 
old  age.  With  the  best  Friendly  So- 
cieties sick-pay  ceases  as  a  rule  at  the 
age  of  sixty-five ;  and  though  some 
have  ventured  to  start  a  pension- 
branch,  it  has  not  generally  proved 
very  successful.  The  experiment  was 
tried  by  the  Manchester  Unity  of 
Oddfellows,  but,  after  two  years  four 
members  only  had  become  subscribers 
to  the  fund. 

Must  we  from  this  evidence  infer 
the  inability  of  the  poor  to  insure 
against  old  age  ?  A  knowledge  of 
their  habits  and  prejudices  will,  I 
think,  enable  us  to  answer  this  ques- 
tion in  the  negative.  The  deferred 
annuity  is  the  form  of  insurance 
which  is  least  popular  among  the  poor. 
In  the  first  place,  they  do  not  care  to 
invest  their  money  in  the  purchase  of 
an  allowance  which  they  may  never 
live  to  enjoy ;  in  the  second,  it  is  a 
thoroughly  selfish  system,  and  does 
not  directly  benefit  their  families. 
This  dislike  of  deferred  annuities  is 
easily  demonstrated.  The  Post  Ofl&ce 
offers  facilities  for  the  purchase  of 
deferred  annuities  on  equitable 
terms     and    with    absolute    security. 


Though  these  facilities  are  open  to 
all,  and  no  question  can  therefore 
arise  of  the  existence  of  persons  able 
to  insure,  in  the  year  1888  the  pre- 
mium revenue  of  the  Post  Office  for 
Life  Assurance  amounted  only  to 
£14,121,  and  the  number  of  contracts 
opened  in  that  year  was  only  580. 
We  are  told  that  the  Post  Office  ar- 
rangements are  so  complicated  that 
they  deter  the  public  from  availing 
itself  of  the  benefits  offered,  but  at 
any  rate  they  do  not  deter  depositors 
from  making  very  large  use  of  the 
Savings  Bank  Depai-tment.  Again 
Industrial  Assurance  Companies  offer 
no  facilities  to  their  customers  for  the 
purchase  of  deferred  annuities,  as  they 
certainly  would  were  there  any  de- 
mand for  them. 

The  ways  in  which  the  poor  invest 
their  savings  are  manifold.  Often 
they  purchase  articles  which  they  can 
realize  in  time  of  want,  having  enjoyed 
the  use  of  them  meanwhile.  If  they 
have  enough  furniture,  they  can  take 
a  small  house  and  let  off  one  or  two 
furnished  rooms  ;  in  this  way  they 
may  sometimes  clear  the  whole  of 
their  rent.  Working-men  earning 
good  wages  often  become  members  of 
building  societies,  and  thus  acquire 
the  absolute  ownership  of  the  house 
in  which  they  live.  Through  the 
same  agencies  they  have  the  opportu- 
nity of  investing  small  sums  at  good 
interest  on  mortgage.  The  capital  of 
the  registered  Building  Societies  of 
England  and  Wales  amounted  last 
year  to  upwards  of  fifty  millions.  But 
of  all  forms  of  providence  known 
among  the  poor,  none  is  more  popular 
than  the  insurance  against  death. 
There  is  scarcely  a  village  in  the 
country  in  which  the  agent  of  "  The 
Prudential  '*  is  unknown.  The  sum 
insured  in  the  Industrial  Branches  of 
fourteen  Insurance  Companies  on 
policies  for  sums  not  exceeding 
£50,  amounted  in  1887  to  £83,649,570, 
the  total  number  of  policies  being 
9,1 77,661.  The  work  is  mainly  carried 
on  through  the  agency  of  collectors, 
and  the  average  cost  of   management 


316 


National  Pensions, 


amounted  in  consequence  to  44*38  per 
cent,  of  the  premium  revenue.  Though 
we  may  deplore  the  costliness  of  the 
system,  we  must  not  forget  that  but  for 
the  importunity  of  the  collector  the 
majority  of  these  policies  would  never 
have  been  taken  out  at  all,  and  much 
of  the  money  now  paid  in  premiums 
would  have  been  spent  at  the  public- 
house.  The  greater  part  of  the  life 
policies  taken  out  in  the  Industrial 
Insurance  Companies  are,  it  must  be 
confessed,  for  very  small  amounts, 
such  as  would  seem  able  to  secure  no 
benefit  beyond  providing  a  handsome 
funeral  for  the  deceased  and  hand- 
some mourning  for  his  immediate  re- 
latives. But  even  insurance  of  this 
kind  serves  a  useful  purpose.  The 
majority  of  the  poor  who  live  to  old 
age  become  more  or  less  dependent 
upon  relatives .  An  aged  relative  is  a 
more  welcome  guest  for  the  possession 
of  a  life  policy,  even  though  it  be  but 
for  a  small  sum,  and  this  will  often  pro- 
cure his  admission  to  the  home  of  those 
upon  whom  he  has  no  legal  claim.  It 
will  sometimes  be  found  that  the 
policy  is  taken  out  in  the  name  of  the 
nephew  or  niece  with  whom  he  goes 
to  reside. 

If  we  cannot  safely  infer  from  the 
apathy  of  the  leading  Friendly  Societies 
in  the  matter  of  old-age  benefits  the 
inability  of  members  to  support  a  pen- 
sion fund,  there  are  instances  which 
prove  that  such  an  inference  would  be 
not  only  unsafe  but  untrue.  To  quote 
once  more  from  a  county  to  whose 
experience  I  am  already  heavily  in- 
debted :  the  Berkshire  Friendly  Society 
makes  it  incumbent  upon  all  members 
to  subscribe  either  for  sick-pay  calcu- 
lated for  their  whole  lives,  or  for  an 
old-age  pension.  Though  the  members 
aie  to  a  great  extent  agricultural 
lal  )ourers  earning  low  wages,  the  Society 
has  constantly  grown,  and  is  now  in  a 
flourishing  condition.  It  is  true  that 
some  management  expenses  are  saved 
by  the  voluntary  assistance  given  by 
local  gentry  and  farmers,  but  this  can 
scarcely  be  held  to  vitiate  the  claim 
that  the  Society  is  practically  self-sup- 


porting. If  its  success  has  been  due 
in  great  part  to  the  good  advice  which 
has  been  available  for  it,  it  can  hardly 
be  condemned  on  that  account.  In- 
deed, this  is  just  the  way  in  which 
those  who  enjoy  the  advantages  of 
education  and  leisure  can  best  help 
the  poor.  Whether  the  efforts  of  those 
who  wish  to  establish  pension  funds  in 
connection  with  all  Friendly  Societies 
could  with  advantage  be  supplemented 
by  State-assistance  is  a  question  which 
it  would  be  idle  to  discuss  until  the 
leading  Societies  ask  for  such  assist- 
ance. They  have  hitherto  shown  little 
inclination  in  this  direction. 

In  the  preceding  pages  I  have  dwelt 
on  the  old-age  problem  as  it  stands  at 
present.  I  have  endeavoured  to  show 
on  the  one  hand,  that  the  attacks 
which  have  been  made  upon  the  Poor- 
Law  are  founded  upon  misconceptions, 
and,  on  the  other,  that  the  prospects 
of  the  working-man  who  looks  forward 
to  old  age  are  less  hopeless  than  have 
sometimes  been  represented.  I  am 
now  in  a  position  to  advert  to  certain 
proposals  for  National  Pensions  which 
have  been  submitted  to  the  public. 
Of  the  suggested  schemes  the  most 
simple  and  most  radical  may  be  taken 
first. 

The  provision,  at  the  expense  of  the 
State,  of  a  pension  of  five  shillings  a 
week  for  all  persons  over  sixty-five 
years  of  age  has  been  boldly  discussed 
by  Mr.  Charles  Booth,  who  was  re- 
cently described  by  Mr.  Chamberlain 
as  the  greatest  living  authority  on 
pauperism;  though  he  has,  I  believe, 
no  practical  experience  of  Poor-Law 
administration.  It  is  evident  that  Mr. 
Booth  is  favourably  inclined  towaixis 
the  scheme ;  and  he  seems  to  regard  it 
as  impracticable  at  present  only  be- 
cause the  taxpayer  of  England  and 
Wales  is  not  yet  likely  to  be  willing 
to  pay  the  £17,000,000  a  year  (or 
eightpence  in  the  pound  Income  Tax) 
which  would  be  required.  He  argues 
that  the  bulk  of  the  aged  poor  would 
be  able  to  live  in  fair  comfort  with 
this  allowance  as  a  nucleus,  supple- 
mented by  their  other  resources.    The 


National  Pensions. 


:U1 


workhouse  would  still  exist  for  those 
very  helpless  or  very  reckless  persons 
who  could  not  find  a  home  outside, 
and  their  pensions  would  be  drawn  by 
the  guardians. 

Mr.  Booth  has,  in  our  opinion, 
seriously  underrated  the  difficulties 
and  dangers  which  would  attend  the 
carrying  out  of  this  scheme.  No  care- 
ful estimate  of  the  real  cost  has  been 
attempted.  The  £17,000,000  does  not 
cover  management  expenses,  and  these 
would  bo  enormous.  The  Poor-Law 
guardians,  for  all  their  decentralised 
machinery,  cannot  protect  themselves 
against  imposture,  and  the  authorities 
entrusted  with  the  administration  of 
the  scheme  would  find  it  in  practice 
no  easy  task  to  guard  against  appli- 
cants understating  their  ages,  and  to 
])revent  the  families  of  deceased  pen- 
sioners from  continuing  to  draw  their 
allowances.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  foretell  what  economic  difficulties 
would  not  arise  in  the  working  of  the 
experiment.  Take.one  example.  Many 
men  at  sixty-five  are  still  able  to  work. 
Kow,  the  experience  of  the  old  Poor- 
Law  has  shown  conclusively  that  the 
etVect  of  an  allowance  in  aid  of  wages 
results  in  their  reduction.  Wher- 
ever out-relief  is  given  we  find  that 
j)i'rsons  in  regular  receipt  of  it  are 
willin^S  because  they  are  able,  to 
secure  employment  by  working  at  less 
than  a  subsistence  wage.  Complaints 
have  even  been  made  in  certain  quarters 
that  army-pensioners  obtain  employ- 
ment in  preference  to  other  labourers 
becuiuse  they  are  in  a  position  to  take 
lower  wages.  May  we  not  naturally 
fear  that  under  the  proposed  system 
pensioners  would  undersell  their  la- 
bour, and  drive  out  of  employment 
their  juniors  of  the  age  of,  say,  sixty 
to  sixty-tive  I  This  lowering  of  the 
age  of  supt'rannuation  should  logically 
be  followed  by  a  reduction  of  the  pen- 
sion ag(?  to  sixty — it  is  estimated  that 
tliis  would  double  the  cost — and  the 
process  would  repeat  itself  indefinitely. 
The  main  argument  used  for  making 
th«'  pensions  payable  to  all,  rich  as 
well  as  poor,  is  that  by  this  means  the 


idea  of  disgrace  could  be  banished 
from  the  receipt  of  public  assistance. 
Js  not  the  price  a  rather  heavy  one  to 
pay  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  the  poor 
pocket  an  allowance  paid  for  by  othei's 
with  as  much  complacency  as  they 
receive  their  own  wages  1 

Where,  however,  Mr.  Booth  seems 
to  me  most  mistaken  is  in  the  view 
which  he  takes  of  the  probable 
effect  of  the  measiii'e  uj)on  thrift 
generally.  Will,  he  asks,  the  assur- 
ance of  five  shillings  a  week  after 
sixty-five  make  those  who  can  lay 
by  at  all  less  anxious,  on  the 
whole,  to  do  so]  This  question  has 
been  answered  in  the  negative  by  the 
Fabian  Society,  and  Mr.  Booth  adopts 
their  arguments.  At  present,  we  are 
told,  the  poor  cannot  save  enougli  to 
provide  a  satisfactory  maintenance  in 
old  age.  They  must  have  recourse  to 
the  Poor-La w  in  any  case,  and  their 
savings  would  only  go  in  relief  of  the 
rates  ;  therefore  they  make  no  attempt 
to  save  at  all.  If,  however,  bare  sub- 
sistence in  old  age  were  a.ssured  them, 
the  certainty  of  reaping  the  benefit  of 
their  savings  would  stimulate  to  provi- 
dence. No  figvu'es  can  help  us  to  test 
the  force  of  this  contention.  We  must, 
each  of  us  for  ourselves,  form  an 
opinion  in  the  light  of  our  knowledge 
of  human  nature.  As  we  have  seen 
above,  the  workhouse  is  not,  even  for 
the  poorest,  the  certainty  which  the 
Fabian  Society  contends.  Thrift  does 
for  the  most  part  secure  its  due  reward, 
and  the  poor  have  at  present  the 
strongest  possible  incentive  for  saving. 
What  are  the  motives  which  practi- 
cally determine  conduct?  One  need 
not  be  an  Utilitarian  to  see  that  there 
is  a  constant  struggle  between  the 
desire  of  present  comfort  or  pleasuie  on 
the  one  hand,  and  the  fear  of  want  or 
discomfort  in  the  future  on  the  other. 
Even  under  the  present  conditions  too 
many  of  the  poor  find  the  desire  of 
present  gratification  irresistible.  Ls 
the  motive  likely  to  prove  less  ix)wer- 
ful  when  the  force  set  against  it  is  no 
longer  the  fear  of  the  workhouse,  but 
the  possibility  of  having  to  do  without 


818 


National  Pensions. 


additional  comforts  after  sixty-five? 
What  attraction  will  deferred  luxury 
have  for  the  drunkard  and  the  idler] 
In  France,  where  the  peasant  has  not 
so  certain  an  asylum  as  the  workhouse 
to  look  forward  to,  he  is  led  by  the 
fear  of  destitution  to  habits  of  thrift 
unknown  in  this  country. 

There  is  another  aspect  of  the 
question.  Even  in  our  present  civil- 
isation the  unit  is  not  the  individual 
but  the  family.  Within  the  circle  of 
the  family  we  are  for  the  most  part 
Socialists.  The  father  works  for  the 
good  of  all,  and  the  mother's  motives 
are  not  individualistic  ;  even  brothersi 
and  sisters  do  not  always  insist  on  their 
legal  rights  among  themselves.  We 
are  all  dependent  upon  our  parents  in 
childhood.  The  majority  of  us — for 
the  poor  are  a  majority — if  we  live 
long  enough,  become  wholly  or  partially 
dependent  upon  our  children,  or  other 
members  of  our  family,  in  our  later 
years.  Does  not  this  fact  afford  the 
real  explanation  of  many  of  the  diffi- 
culties which  puzzle  the  statistician? 
Numbers  of  the  poor  are  apparently 
unable  to  save  against  old  age.  Yet 
official  returns  show  that  they  die 
neither  in  the  workhouse  nor  from 
starvation.  The  simple  truth  is  that 
old  people  are  supported  by  their 
children  or  other  relatives.  In  such 
assistance  there  is  no  degradation. 
The  benefits  are  received  in  return  for 
similar  kindnesses  bestowed  by  the  re- 
cipients in  former  years,  and  are  given 
in  unconscious  anticipation  of  similar 
benefits  to  be  received  in  their  turn  by 
the  donors.  One  of  the  most  potent 
forms  of  thrift  on  the  part  of  parents 
is  the  education  of  children  in  such  a 
way  that  they  will,  in  years  to  come, 
recognise  their  filial  obligations.  Is 
not  this  a  better  Socialism  than  that 
which,  while  it  assumes  altruism  on  the 
part  of  every  member  of  a  community, 
would  loosen  parental  ties  and  foster 
within  the  family  a  selfish  indivi- 
dualism ?  This  consideration  has 
special  force  with  regard  to  the  position 
of  women.  They  are  naturally  more 
dependent     than     men     upon     their 


families,  and  they  would  be  most 
affected  by  any  measure  which  under- 
mined the  recognition  of  family  obliga- 
tions. 

Of  the  many  proposals  which  are  in 
the  air  for  the  supplementation  by  the 
State  of  voluntary  insurance,  the  most 
definite  is  that  of  the  National  Provi- 
dence League.  Its  essential  provision 
is  that  every  person  who  has  secured 
from  his  own  payments  a  pension  of 
two  shillings  and  sixpence  a  week  shall 
have  the  right  to  claim  from  the  State 
an  additional  weekly  allowance  of 
two  shillings  and  sixpence  at  the  age 
of  sixty-five.  He  is  also  to  be  allowed 
to  receive  any  Poor-Law  relief  which 
may  be  necessary  at  any  preceding 
period  in  the  form  of  out-relief.  This 
proposal  would  doubtless  be  a  far  less 
dangerous  experiment  than  that  which 
we  have  already  discussed.  Some  of 
the  objections  to  the  latter  would, 
however,  apply  to  it,  though  in  a  less 
degree.  And  we  must  not  flatter  our- 
selves that  the  measure  would  do  much 
towards  the  abolition  of  pauperism. 
The  case  of  the  drunkard  and  of  the 
spendthrift  would  be  left  untouched, 
and  though  in  a  matter  of  this  kind 
accurate  statistics  are  not  to  be  ob- 
tained, we  may  note  that  careful 
persons  like  Mr.  McDougall,  of  Man- 
chester, who  have  investigated  the 
sources  of  pauperism,  attribute  51 
per  cent,  of  its  numbers  to  drunkenness 
alone. 

In  view  of  these  considerations  and 
of  the  great  burden  which  the  pro- 
posed experiment  would  impose  on 
the  unfortunate  ratepayers,  I  cannot 
think  that  we  should  be  well  advised 
to  adopt  a  scheme  which  would  in 
effect  offer  an  euormous  premium  to 
one  particular  form  of  thrift,  and  that 
one  which,  as  we  have  seen,  is  the 
least  acceptable  to  the  taste  and  feel- 
ings of  the  community,  and  which 
would  risk  injuring  by  unfair  compe- 
tition the  development  of  those 
natural  agencies  which  already  possess 
the  confidence  of  the  working-classes. 

The  proposal  of  the  Poor  Law  Re- 
form Association  to  combine  the  pro- 


National  Pensions. 


319 


vision  of  the  free  pension  with  sup- 
plementation from  public  funds,  to 
the  extent  of  20  per  cent,  of  any 
deferred  annuity  not  exceeding  £10  a 
year  provided  by  insurance,  seems  to 
me  to  unite  the  defects  of  the  two 
schemes  which  we  have  discussed. 

If  State-aided  insurance  must  fail 
in  inducing  the  improvident  to  take 
thought  for  their  old  age,  the  idea  na- 
turally occurs  :  Why  not  make  insur- 
ance compulsory  1  This  course  has  been 
advocated  for  years  by  Canon  Blackley. 
The  reply  to  the  suggestion  is  simple. 
We  are  not  at  present  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced in  Socialism  to  submit  to  such 
compulsion.  The  experiment  is  being 
tried  in  Germany,  where  workmen  are 
forced  to  find  about  one-third  of  the 
cost  of  insuring  for  themselves  a 
small  superannuation  allowance.  There 
even,  if  we  are  not  misinformed, 
it  is  only  in  the  case  of  men 
in  constant  and  regular  employ- 
ment that  the  collection  of  premiums 
is  at  all  satisfactory.  With  us  the 
difficulty  would  be  greater  still.  The 
casual  labourer,  the  man  in  irregular 
employment — the  class  from  which 
the  aged  pauper  is  chiefly  drawn — is 
just  the  person  who  would  escape  pay- 
ment, and  be  left  in  the  end  without 
a  pension.  Moreover,  the  cry  would 
soon  be  raised  that  it  is  a  cruel  thing 
to  exact  insurance  money  from  a  man 
who  scarcely  earns  enough  to  keep  his 
family  in  the  bare  necessaries  of  life. 
We  should  witness  a  repetition  of  the 
process  which  has  been  observed  in 
the  history  of  elementary  education. 
Just  as  State-assistance  was  followed 
by  compulsion,  and  compulsory  attend- 
jince  at  school  led  to  free  education, 
so  cjompulsory  insurance  would  very 
possibly  result  in  free  pensions.  The 
arguments  which  brought  about  the 
abolition  of  school-fees  would  be  ap- 
plied with  equal  force  to  the  new  ques- 
tion, and  our  democracy  would  be 
easily  convinced  that  if  the  poor  were 
compelled  to  pay  for  benefits  which 
they  might  never  live  to  enjoy,  the 
State  was  bound,  in  common  justice, 
to  provide  the  premiums. 


If  none  of  the  pension-schemes 
which  have  been  proposed  can  safely 
be  adopted,  are  we  to  be  content  with 
a  policy  of  sitting  still  ?  If  we  can- 
not by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  or  by  an 
enactment  of  the  legislature,  emanci- 
pate the  poor,  can  the  rich  do  nothing 
to  assist  them  to  work  out  their  own 
salvation?  Let  me  indicate  a  few 
directions  which  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  efforts  of  those  who  seek  to  pro- 
mote the  welfare  of  the  poor  might 
take.  The  process  of  depauperisation 
which  is  going  on  in  Unions  like 
Brixworth  and  Bradfield  can  become 
general  throughout  the  country  only 
by  the  constant  efforts  of  disinterested 
and  intelligent  guardians,  and  no  man 
need  consider  the  work  of  Poor-Law 
administration  unworthy  of  his  devo- 
tion. The  promotion  of  Friendlyand  Co- 
operative Societies  is  another  task  call- 
ing for  the  assistance  of  men  of  educa- 
tion and  leisure.  In  rural  districts  espe- 
cially a  sound  Friendly  Society  can 
hardly  be  floated  and  steered  into  suc- 
cess without  wider  knowledge  than 
the  labourer  possesses.  Again,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  enumerate  all  the 
various  ways  in  which  the  poor  can  be 
instructed  in  the  means  of  effecting 
household  economy  and  avoiding 
waste.  Further,  a  preacher  who 
would  convince  them  that  unduly  early 
marriage  is  a  crime,  and  that  parents 
who  bring  into  the  world  more  chil- 
dren than  they  can  properly  maintain, 
have  none  to  blame  but  themselves, 
would  be  one  of  the  greatest  benefac- 
tors of  the  age. 

Again,  while  we  must  never  sacri- 
fice the  interests  of  the  community  to 
those  of  the  pauper,  it  is  possible, 
even  under  the  present  system,  to  do 
much  towards  making  his  lot  toler- 
able. In  recent  years  much  improve- 
ment has  been  effected  in  workhouses, 
but  in  many  parts  of  the  country 
much  still  remains  to  be  done.  The 
changes  which  seem  'to  me  to  be  most 
desirable  are  in  the  direction  of  better 
classification  and  of  providing  suitable 
occupation.  Elaborate  classification 
no  doubt  entails  much  expense,  but 


320 


Natio7ial  Pensions, 


money  can  scarcely  be  better  spent 
than  in  insuring  that  comparatively 
respectable  people  are  not  compelled 
to  associate  witli  the  depraved.  Want 
of  employment,  again,  is  probably  the 
Cituso  of  much  of  the  dreariness  which 
strikes  the  visitor  in  the  workhouse. 
Wliy  should  not  old  people  be  en- 
couraged to  occupy  their  time  in  work 
as  nearly  as  possible  like  that  to 
which  they  have  been  accustomed? 
Anv  reform  of  this  kind  makes  life 
in  the  workhouse  happier  without 
making  it  in  any  way  more  attractive 
in  anticipation. 

Hitherto  I  have  made  no  mention 
of  private  charity.  Its  bearing  upon 
the  question  under  discussion  is,  how- 
ever, too  important  to  be  left  un- 
mentioned.  Thrift  and  industry  do 
as  a  rule  meet  with  their  reward. 
There  are,  however,  cases  in  which 
owing  to  exceptional  misfortunes  the 
most  provident  and  the  most  energetic 
are  finally  left  destitute.  It  is  the 
duty  of  private  charity  to  deal  with 
these.  The  cases  are  not  so  numerous 
as  might  be  supposed,  and  private 
charity,  if  properly  organised  and  not 
waited  on  the  wrong  objects,  is  for 
the  most  part  competent  for  the  task  ; 
though,  from  time  to  time,  .sensational 
appeals  on  behalf  of  striking  schemes 
divert  the  stream  of  contributions, 
and  the  poor  sutler  in  consequence. 
It  is  true  that  such  charities  as  the 
'i'owcr  Hamlets  Pension  Committee, 
which  was  foundeil  to  provide  adequate 
pensions  for  the  class  of  case  indi- 
catiMl  in  certain  districts  of  London 
where  out-iclief  is  practically  abolished, 
have  gieat  dithculty  in  obtaining  the 
support  they  deserve;  but  the  best 
manage<l  committees  of  the  Charity 
Organisation  Sm'iety,  who  have  on 
principle  lixed  the  standard  of  eligi- 
hilitv  verv  hiirh,  claim  that  thev  have 
never  faile<l  to  prot-ure  from  some 
source  the  means  of  supplying  a  j)en- 
sion  in  anv  case  resident  within  their 
res[»ective     districts,     which     it     has 


seemed  to  them  desirable  to  recom- 
mend to  the  charity  of  strangers.^ 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  districts 
in  which  the  local  sources  of  charity 
stand  in  need  of  much  organisation 
before  they  can  be  regarded  as  com- 
petent to  furnish  a  pension  to  every 
suitable  applicant.  But  no  public 
machinery  would  possess  the  neces- 
sary discrimination  or  elasticity  for 
dealing  with  the  intricacies  of  deli- 
cate ca.se-work,  and  it  is  to  voluntary 
effort  rather  than  to  legislation  that 
we  should  look  for  the  solution  of  the 
problem. 

The  principles  whidi  underlie  my 
main  contention  are  not  new.  They 
were  learnt  in  the  early  part  of  this 
century,  at  the  cost  of  bitter  experi- 
ence, by  the  classes  who  then  ruled 
the  country.  Most  educated  men 
have  been  able  to  profit  by  the  les- 
sons which  their  fathers  have  lK?en  able 
to  teach  them,  and  the  liistorv  of  the 
Poor-Law  is  open  to  all  who  care  to 
read  it.  Now,  however,  we  are  go- 
verned by  a  democracy,  and  demo- 
cracies prefer  to-night's  evening  pn|>er 
to  ancient  history.  It  may  be  that 
the  masses  will  have  to  learn  by  i)er- 
sonal  experience  the  truths  which,  if 
they  were  wise,  they  might  accept  at 
second  -  hand.  Unfortunately  there 
will  always  be  leaders  ready  to  en- 
courage them  in  their  unwisdom.  The 
potential  |)auper  does  not  like  the 
workhouse,  and  liis  vote  cannot  bo 
despi.^ed.  In  the  exigencies  of  jwirty 
strife  there  is  no  danger  into  which 
politicians  will  not  be  found  to  rush  ; 
but  the  thoughtful  man  who  is  not 
seeking  popuhirity  will  prefer  to  be 
"  on  the  side  of  the  angels." 

*  The  Charity  Or^anis.ition  Society  ha» 
thought  right,  as  a  ruh',  to  api»eal  tu  .strangem 
f<»r  hfln  tu  provi'le  nt'iihions  only  in  roses 
wliere  thcso  two  (•on<litit>n.s  are  satistied  :  (1) 
That  the  applicant  has  nnuic  the  lest  use  of 
hisoppfirtunitifs  forprovi*ii'>ii  against  old  age  ; 
(2)  That  the  relativiK,  if  any,  u|)on  whom 
the  applicant  has  a  legal  or  strong  moral  claim 
for  support  are  doing  thrir  U'st  to  help. 

H.    Cl.AIlKNcE   BoruNK. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


MARCH,     1892. 


FINLAND. 


At  this  moment  the  most  interest- 
ing political  study  in  Europe  is  the 
Grand  Duchy  of  Finland.  Its  past 
political  history  and  its  present  politi- 
cal state  are  among  the  most  remark- 
able that  either  past  or  present 
supplies.  A  land  has  been  twice 
conquered,  and  each  time  it  has  gained 
by  its  conquest.  Its  last  conqueror 
boasted,  and  boasted  with  truth,  that 
his  conquest  had  caused  a  new  free 
people  to  take  its  place  among  the 
nations.  For,  in  becoming  part  of 
the  dominions  of  that  foreign  con- 
(jueror,  the  land  kept  its  ancient  laws 
and  political  rights,  and  received  a 
more  distinct  political  being  than  it 
had  possessed  before.  Subject  to  a 
sovereign  who  rules  his  other  do- 
minions with  unrestrained  power,  it 
still  keeps  its  ancient  constitution,  a 
constitution  of  a  type  of  which  it  is 
the  only  surviving  example.  The  free 
state,  united  to  the  despotism,  has  rather 
advanced  than  gone  back  in  the  path 
of  freedoDi.  Fiuland  is  all  this,  and 
it  is  more.  It  is  the  land  which, 
more  than  any  other,  throws  light  on 
our  own  controversies  of  the  moment. 
The  immo  of  Finland  has  been  con- 
stantly brought  by  way  of  example 
into  lute  discussions  on  the  question 
of  Irish  Home  Rule.  And  it  is  almost 
tlie  only  lan<l,  outside  the  dominions 
of  our  own  sovereign,  which  has  been 
brouglit  into  such  discussions  with 
any  measure  of  reason.  Talk,  on 
either  side,  about  Hungary  and  Aus- 
tria, about  Sweden  and  Norway, 
about  states  where  the  bond  of  union 
has  taken   a  federal  shape,  has  been 

No.   38'J. — VOL.  Lxv,* 


wholly  out  of  place ;  it  could  prove 
nothing  either  way.  But  talk  about 
Russia  and  Finland  has  not  been  out 
of  place  ;  if  quoting  of  examples  can 
prove  anything  in  such  matters,  Fin- 
land is  the  example  which  is  likely 
to  prove  most.  But  we  cannot  get 
the  full  measure  of  the  teaching  of 
that  example  unless  we  contrast  it 
with  another  example.  Within  a  few 
years  two  States  were  added  to  the 
dominions  of  the  same  despotic  sove- 
reign, not  quite  on  the  same  terms,  but 
on  terms  so  nearly  the  same  that  both 
may  be  fairly  called  constitutional 
States,  80  nearly  the  same  that  the  rela- 
tion of  each  to  the  other  dominions  of  the 
common  sovereign  might  fairly  be  called 
a  relation  of  Home  Rule.  In  1809  the 
Emperor  of  all  the  Russias  became 
constitutional  Grand  Duke  of  Finland. 
In  1814-15  he  became  constitutional 
King  of  Poland.  Constitutional  Grand 
Duke  of  Finland  his  successor  remains, 
ruling  over  a  free  and  loyal  people, 
who  ask  for  nothing  but  to  be  left  to 
enjoy  the  rights  and  laws  which  his  pre- 
decessor confirmed  to  them.  That  there 
is  no  longer  a  constitutional  King  of 
Poland  no  man  needs  to  be  told.  That 
is  to  say,  of  two  like  political  experi- 
ments tried  within  a  few  years  of  each 
other,  one  has  wonderfully  succeeded, 
the  other  has  lamentably  failed. 
The  causes  of  success  and  of  failure 
may  form  a  deep  study  for  the 
political  historian.  As  for  the  pre- 
sent controversy  among  ourselves, 
the  contrast  may  teach  something  to 
both  sides.  If  any  man  is  unwise 
enough  to  fancy  that  Home  Rule  is  a 

Y 


322 


FinlaTid. 


remedy  for  all  things,  that  it  is  a 
relation  likely  to  succeed  in  any  time 
and  any  place,  let  him  learn  better  by 
looking  at  the  sad  failure  of  Home 
Rule  in  Poland.  But  if  any  man  is 
unwise  enough  to  fancy  that  Home 
Rule  is  some  theoretical  device  which 
was  never  tried  before,  and  which, 
if  tried,  is  in  its  own  nature  destined 
to  failure,  let  him  learn  better  by 
looking  at  the  wonderful  success  of 
Home  Rule  in  Finland,  a  success  on 
which  assuredly  the  wisest  statesman 
could  not  have  reckoned  beforehand. 

The  Finnish  people,  the  people  who 
have  given  their  name  to  Finland, 
claim  at  starting  an  unique  interest 
as  the  only  branch  of  one  of  the 
primitive  stocks  of  Europe  which  has 
reached  to  any  measure  of  civilization 
and  historic  importance  on  its  own 
soil.  We  need  not  dispute  whether 
the  two  pr»- Aryan  stocks  at  two  ends 
of  £urope,  that  which  is  represented 
by  the  Fins  and  that  which  is  repre- 
sented by  the  Basques,  have  any  con- 
nexion with  one  another.  It  is 
enough  for  our  purpose  that  the 
Finnish  race,  once  so  widely  spread, 
has  in  some  parts  given  way  to  Aryan 
settlement,  that  in  others  it  has  made 
its  way  by  conquest  into  lands  already 
Aryan,  while  in  one  land  it  has  stayed 
at  home  and  grown  its  own  growth, 
under  Aryan  rule  certainly,  but  under  a 
rule  which  did  not  carry  with  it  either 
displacement,  bondage,  or  assimilation. 
In  the  Magyar  kingdom  the  Fin,  still 
speaking  his  Finnish  tongue,  bears 
rule  over  Aryan  subjects.  In  the 
Bulgarian  lands,  delivered  and  yet  to 
be  delivered,  he  has,  as  far  as  speech 
goes,  been  assimilated  by  Aryan  sub- 
jects and  neighbours.  But  he  still 
keeps  something  which  distinguish^ 
him  from  other  speakers  of  the  kindred 
Slavonic  tongues.  In  the  Baltic 
provinces  of  Russia  he  still  lives  on 
through  conquest  after  conquest,  along 
with  masters  who  have  become  sharers 
in  his  bondage.  But  on  the  northern 
side  of  their  own  gulf  a  Finnish  people 
still  abide  on  their  own  soil,  still 
keeping    their    national    speech    and 


national  life,  a  speech  and  life  which 
have  also  endured  through  two  con- 
quests, but  conquests  each  of  which 
has  served  to  raise  the  conquered  to 
the  level,  or  above  the  level,  of  their 
conquerors.  Conquest  by  Sweden 
brought  Finland  within  the  pale  of 
the  religion  and  civilization  of  Europe. 
Conquest  by  Russia  gave  the  Finnish 
people  a  distinct  national  being;  in- 
separable union  with  the  dominions  of 
a  despotic  ruler  has  to  them  meant  a 
step  in  the  path  of  freedom,  a  nearer 
approach  than  before  to  the  full 
independence  of  a  nation. 

The  union  of  Finland  with  the 
Swedish  rule  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Baltic  was  one  of  a  class  of  enterprises 
in  which  the  history  of  Northern 
Europe  is  rich.  If  we  are  unchari- 
tably given,  we  may  say  that  greed  of 
territorial  dominion  cloked  itself  under 
the  garb  of  religious  zeal ;  but  we 
shall  show  better  understanding  of  the 
spirit  of  the  time,  if  we  say  that  am- 
bition, love  of  adventure,  and  a 
genuine  zeal  for  religious  conversion, 
all  walked  side  by  side,  and  were  often 
united  in  the  same  person.  In  the 
latter  half  of  the  twelfth  century  the 
combined  work  of  conquest  and  con- 
version began  with  the  Swedish  King 
Eric,  who  bears  the  title  of  the  Saint. 
Such  an  enterprise  passed  in  those  days 
for  a  crusade,  and  the  Swedish  crusades 
in  Finland  at  least  bore  better  fruits 
than  the  German  crusades  in  the 
Wendish  and  Prussian  and  southern 
Finnish  lands.  The  land  became  part 
of  the  Swedish  dominion  ;  the  law  and 
the  creed  of  Sweden  became  the  law 
and  the  creed  of  Finland ;  Swedish 
colonists  largely  settled  in  the  country  ; 
but  the  older  people  were  neither  dis- 
placed, enslaved,  nor  assimilated.  The 
Fin,  speaking  his  Finnish  tongue,  was 
a  subject  of  the  Swedish  king,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Swedish  kingdom,  on  the 
same  terms  as  his  Swedish  fellow- 
subject.  He  shared,  for  good  and  for 
evil,  the  destinies  of  the  State  of  which 
he  had  become  part.  He  had  his  one 
neighbour  and  enemy,  as  the  parts  of 
the  kingdom  on  the  other  side  of  the 


Finland. 


323 


Northern  Mediterranean  had  theirs. 
Kussian  warfare,  Russian  invasion, 
have  been  familiar  things  in  Finnish 
history  from  the  thirteenth  century  to 
the  nineteenth.  While  the  Swede 
advanced  from  the  coast,  the  Russian 
advanced  from  his  inland  frontier. 
That  frontier  has  shifted  to  and  fro, 
as  the  result  of  many  wars  and  many 
treaties.  And  as  the  faith  of  the  Old 
Rome  advanced  along  with  the  march 
of  the  Swede,  the  faith  of  the  New 
Rome  advanced  no  less  along  with  the 
march  of  the  Russian. 

But  Finland,  as  an  integral  part  of 
the    Swedish    kingdom,  shared   in  its 
religious,  no  less  than  in  its  political 
revolutions.     Fins  and  Swedes  equally 
accepted    the  Lutheran   Reformation. 
And  to  this  day  the  Lutheran  creed  is 
the  creed  of  the  vast  majority  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Finland  ;  the  Orthodox 
faith     is     professed     only     in     some 
districts    bordering    on    Russia,    and 
which  have  been,  at  one  time  or  another, 
under    Russian    dominion.     And    we 
must  remember  that  in  Sweden,  as  in 
England,  the  religious  change  did  not 
involve  anything  like  the  same  break 
with  the  traditions  of  the  past  which  it 
involved  in  most  continental  countries. 
The  hierarchy  went  on,  and  kept  its 
old  political  place.     The  ancient  con- 
stitution of  Sweden,  changed  in  modern 
times   in    Sweden   itself,  lives    on    in 
Finland.  The  four  Houses  of  the  Diet, 
Nobles,    Clergy,    Burghers,  and  Pea- 
sants,   still  come    together    under    a 
Grand  Duke  who  is  also  Emperor  of 
all  the  Russias,  as  they  once  did  under 
the   King  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals. 
The    keeping  of  this  ancient  constitu- 
tion, a  native  and  unique  growth  of 
the  joint    Swedish   and   Finnish   soil, 
would  alone  make  Finland  one  of  the 
most   interesting   political   studies   in 
Europe.     There  is  nothing  like  it  now 
elsewhere.       Most    lands    had    three 
Estates  ;  England  was  meant  to  have 
them  as  well  as  others.     But,  as  com- 
pared   with  most    continental    consti- 
tutions, it    is    the    special    glory    of 
Sweden  and  Finland  to  have  had  some- 
thing so  specially  its  own  as  the  House 


of  Peasants.  The  position  of  the  nobles 
was  a  privileged  and  a  powerful  one  ;  in 
particular  times  and  places  it  might 
even  be  an  oppressive  one;  but  the 
mass  of  the  people  of  Sweden  and  Fin- 
land were  never  serfs  or  villains. 

The  course  of  events  which  led  to  the 
present  state  of  things,  the  change  of 
Finland  from  an  integral  part  of  the 
Swedish  kingdom  to  a  separate  state 
inseparably  united  with   the   Russian 
empire  under    a    common    sovereign, 
may  be  said  to  have  directly  begun  in 
the   central   years   of   the  eighteenth 
century.  But  certain  tendencies,  not  in- 
deed to  union  with  Russia,  but  to  a  feel- 
ing of  separate  being  as  distinct  from 
Sweden,    are   older.     The   very   wars 
with  Russia   helped  to  strengthen  it. 
The  geographical  position  of  the  coun- 
try, the  exposed  neighbour  of  Russia, 
while  Sweden   was   the   neighbour  of 
Norway  and   Denmark,  often   caused 
the  defence  of  Finland  to  be  largely 
left  to  its  own  people.     The  introduc- 
tion of    the   style   of   Grand   Duchy, 
the    position    of    the    Grand  Duchy 
of    Finland    as    the    appanage     of   a 
Swedish     prince,      might    also     sug- 
gest   some     measure     of     distinction 
between  the  lands  east  and  west   of 
the  northern  gulf.      Still  Finland  re- 
mained a  part  of  the  Swedish  kingdom. 
The  Grand   Duchy  shared  in  all  the 
revolutions  of  the  kingdom,  alike   in 
those  which  set  up  the  nobles  at  the 
expense   of   the    King  and   in    those 
which  set  up  the  King  at  the  expense 
of  the  nobles.     And  in  such  revolu- 
tions, if  some  discontented   grandees 
cast  their  eyes  another  way,  the  heart 
of  the  Finnish  people  was   ever  with 
their  King. 

In  later,  no  less  than  in  earlier  times, 
Finland  was  naturally  the  scene  of 
every  war  between  Sweden  and  Russia. 
And  we  may  say  that  any  ruler  of 
Russia  must  have  been  endowed  with 
more  than  human  virtue  if  he  did  not 
wish  to  get  possession  both  of  Finland 
and  of  the  lands  specially  known  as 
the  Baltic  provinces.  When  the  only 
Russian  outlet  was  at  Archangel,  the 
yearning  must  have  been  strong  indeed 

Y  2 


324 


Finland. 


to  find  a  path  to  the  more  inviting  sea 
that  lay  so  near.  And  when  the 
Kussian  capital  had  been  placed  so  near 
to  the  Finnish  frontier,  a  capital 
planted  on  ground  actually  won  from 
Sweden,  the  yearning  must  have  be- 
come yet  stronger.  Kussia  was,  as  far 
as  geography  goes,  like  Poland  cut  off 
from  the  sea  by  Prussia,  like  France, 
in  an  earlier  day,  cut  off  from  the  sea 
by  Normandy.  No  wonder  then  that, 
in  all  times,  and  in  the  eighteenth 
century  above  all  earlier  times,  Fin- 
land was  ever  a  main  object  of  Kussian 
warfare  and  Kussian  policy.  The  wars 
of  Charles  the  Twelfth,  ended  after 
his  death  by  the  peace  of  Nystad  in 
1721,  led  to  a  Russian  occupation  of 
Finland  and  to  the  cession  of  a  piece 
of  Finnish  territory.  The  war  of 
1741-43  led  to  another  occupation  and 
another  cession  ;  the  Russian  frontier 
again  advanced.  But  this  invasion 
was  distinguished  from  earlier  ones 
by  the  very  significant  fact  that  the 
Empress  Elizabeth  caused  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  occupied  country  to  swear 
allegiance  to  herself.  But  it  does  not 
appear  that  the  loyalty  of  any  part  of 
the  Finnish  people  to  the  Swedish 
crown  was  ever  seriously  disturbed 
till  the  changes  of  1772,  when  Gus- 
tavus  the  Third  restored  the  royal 
authority  at  the  cost  of  the  nobles. 
The  general  loyalty  of  the  people  was 
not  disturbed  then ;  but  some  of  the 
discontented  nobles  began  to  hope  to 
better  themselves  by  making  Finland 
a  separate  State,  an  aristocratic  State, 
under  Russian  protection.  In  the  next 
war,  waged  by  Gustavus  the  Fourth  in 
1788-90,  this  party  did  not  scruple 
to  enter  into  direct  intrigues  with  the 
Empress  Catharine.  But  the  mass  of 
the  people  clave  to  their  King,  and 
this  time  the  war  was  ended  without 
any  further  cession  of  territory. 

The  fruits  of  all  these  movements 
came,  though  in  a  much  better  form 
than  could  have  been  looked  for,  in 
the  early  years  of  our  own  century. 
In  the  next  war,  the  invasion  by  the 
Tzar  Alexander  the  First  in  1808  led 
to  the  complete  separation  of  Finland 


and  the  other  Swedish  lands  east  of 
the  gulf  of  Bothnia  from  the  Swedish 
crown.  Finland  was  conquered  and 
annexed  by  the  conqueror ;  but  it  was 
annexed  after  a  fashion  in  which  one 
may  suppose  that  no  other  conquered 
land  ever  was  annexed.  In  fact  one 
may  doubt  whether  "  annexed  "  is  the 
right  word.  Since  1809  the  crowns  of 
Russia  and  Finland  are  necessarily 
worn  by  the  same  person  j  the  Russian 
and  the  Finnish  nation  have  neces- 
sarily the  same  sovereign.  But  Fin- 
land is  not  incorporated  with  Russia ; 
in  everything  but  the  common  sove- 
reign Russia  and  Finland  are  countries 
foreign  to  one  another.  And  when  we 
speak  of  the  crown  and  the  nation  of 
Finland,  we  speak  of  a  crown  and  a 
nation  which  were  called  into  being  by 
the  will  of  the  conqueror  himself. 
The  first  act  of  Alexander,  in  June 
1808,  while  the  war  was  still  going  on, 
was  to  call  on  the  four  Estates  of  Fin- 
land to  send  deputies  to  Saint-Peters- 
burg to  confer  with  him  on  the  affairs 
of  the  Grand  Duchy.  Their  advice 
was  to  recommend  the  summoning  of 
a  formal  Diet  of  the  Grand  Duchy 
within  the  country  itself.  So  the 
Tzar  did  in  March  1809.  One  may 
call  it  a  formal  Diet ;  but  one  cannot 
call  it  a  regular  Diet.  A  Diet  of  the 
Grand  Duchy  of  Finland,  apart  from 
the  Diet  of  the  Kingdom  of  Sweden, 
was  something  wholly  new.  The  con- 
queror had  possession  of  part  of  the 
Swedish  dominions,  and  he  called  on  the 
people  of  that  part  to  meet  him  in  a 
separate  Parliament,  but  one  chosen 
in  exactly  the  same  way  as  the  exist- 
ing law  prescribed  for  the  common 
Parliament  of  the  whole.  The  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Four  Estates  of  the 
conquered  lands,  instead  of  going  to 
meet  their  former  sovereign  and  the 
representatives  of  the  rest  of  his 
dominions,  came  together  by  them- 
selves on  their  own  soil  to  meet  the 
new  sovereign  whom  the  chances  of 
war  had  given  them.  In  his  new 
character  of  Grand  Duke  of  Finland, 
the  Tzar  Alexander  came  to  Borg^, 
and  there  on  March  27th,  1809,  fully 


Finland. 


325 


confirmed  the  existing  constitution, 
laws,  and  religion,  of  his  new  State. 
The  position  of  that  State  is  best  de- 
scribed in  his  own  words.  Speaking 
neither  Swedish  nor  Finnish,  and 
speaking  to  hearers  who  understood 
no  Russian,  the  new  Grand  Duke 
used  the  French  tongue.  Finland  was 
"  Place  d^sormais  au rang  des  nations;" 
it  was  a  "  Nation,  tranquille  au  dehors, 
libre  dans  I'int^rieur."  And  it  was  a 
nation  of  his  own  founding.  The 
people  of  Finland  had  ceased  to  be 
part  of  the  Swedish  nation  ;  they  had 
not  become  part  of  the  Russian  na- 
tion ;  they  had  become  a  nation  by 
themselves. 

All  this,  be  it  remembered,  happened 
before  the  formal  cession  of  the  lost 
lands  by  Sweden  to  Russia.  This 
was  not  made  till  the  Peace  of 
Frederikshamn  on  September  17th  of 
the  same  year.  The  treaty  contained 
no  stipulation  for  the  political  rights 
of  Finland  ;  their  full  confirmation  by 
the  new  sovereign  was  held  to  be 
enough.  Two  years  later,  in  1811, 
the  boundary  of  the  new  State  was 
enlarged.  Alexander,  Emperor  of  all 
the  Russias  and  Grand  Duke  of  Fin- 
land, cut  off  from  his  empire,  and 
added  to  his  grand  duchy,  the  Finnish 
districts  which  had  been  ceded  by 
Sweden  to  Russia  sixty  years  before. 
The  boundary  of  his  constitutional 
grand  duchy  was  brought  very  near 
indeed  to  the  capital  of  his  despotic 
empire. 

I  have  called  the  relation  of  Finland 
to  Russia  a  relation  of  Home  Rule, 
and  so  it  is  practically.  Home  Rule  is 
the  relation  of  a  dependency,  of  a 
State  which  has  a  separate  constitu- 
tion in  all  internal  matters,  but  which 
has  all  external  matters  settled  for  it 
by  another  power.  This  is  practically 
the  position  of  Finland.  Formally 
we  might  say  that  it  has  a  higher 
position.  Russia  and  Finland,  with 
their  sovereign  necessarily  the  same, 
but  otherwise  separate  States,  might 
seeui  to  be  formally  in  the  same 
relation  as  Sweden  and  Norway,  as 
Hungary     and     Austria,    as     Great 


Britain  and  Ireland  from  1782  to  1800. 
But  practically  Finland  is  a  dependency 
of  Russia.  She  was  made  to  feel  the 
fact  somewhat  sharply  some  six  or 
seven  and  thirty  years  back,  when  it 
was  thought  a  noble  exploit  of  the 
British  arms  to  work  havoc  on  the 
shores  of  Finland,  in  order,  we  were 
told,  to  prolong  the  Turk's  power  of 
oppression  at  the  other  end  of  Europe. 
Truly  the  Fins  must  have  learned  by 
that  hai*d  teaching,  that,  though  their 
duchy  was  with  good  reason  called  a 
nation  by  the  prince  who  made  it  such, 
yet  it  is  not  a  nation  in  any  inter- 
national sense.  When  the  fruits  of 
the  earth  were  given  to  the  flames  on 
the  shores  of  the  gulf  of  Bothnia  in 
order  that  the  barbarian  mjght  more 
easily  work  his  evil  will  on  the  shores 
of  the  Bosporos,  the  men  of  Finland 
must  have  felt  of  a  truth  that  their 
crown  and  the  crown  of  Russia  are 
inseparable.  It  did  not  occur  to  the 
destroyers  to  make  the  distinction 
which  they  might  possibly  have 
thought  it  politic  to  liiake  in  the  case 
of  Hungary  or  Norway.  That  the 
position  of  Finland,  formally  the  same, 
is  practically  different  from  that  of 
the  last  two  named  lands  is  shown  by 
the  ordinary  forms  of  diplomacy.  There 
are  Austro-Hungarian  embassies  all 
about  ;  there  is  no  Russo- Finnish 
embassy. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
Alexander,  despotic  Emperor  and  con- 
stitutional Grand  Duke,  tried  the  same 
experiment  again  a  few  years  later, 
when  he  took  on  him  a  third  character 
as  constitutional  King  of  Poland. 
But  it  has  been  said  already  that  the 
experiment  which  succeeded  in  Finland 
failed  in  Poland.  We  may  fairly  say 
that  it  succeeded  in  Finland,  though 
the  full  accomplishment  of  the  pro- 
mises of  the  first  sovereign  Grand 
Duke  had  to  wait  till  the  days  of  the 
third.  It  is  strange  that  Alexander 
never  held  another  diet  of  Finland 
after  the  first  when  he  took  possession. 
After  such  a  precedent,  Nicolas  was 
not  likely  to  go  beyond  his  brother  in 
the  constitutional  path.     But  the  land 


326 


Finland. 


was   neither  neglected  nor  oppressed. 
Finland  had  no  such  grounds  of  revolt 
as  Poland  had.  And  with  the  illustrious 
son  of  Nicolas   came  a  brighter  day. 
Alexander  the  Second,  the  prince  who 
broke  the  bonds  of  the  serf  in  his  own 
land  and  who  gave    a  national  being 
to  enslaved  Bulgaria,   did   something 
for  Finland  also.      Since   1863  Diets 
have  been  regularly  held,  and  the  year 
1869    saw    somewhat    of    a    Finnish 
Reform  Bill.     It  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  old  constitution  of  the  Four  Houses, 
while  the  most  precious  of  specimens 
as  a  political   study,  is  a   somewhat 
antiquated  and    clumsy   machine   for 
practical    use.     Under    the    Swedish 
constitution  which  lived  on  unaltered 
in  Finland,  large  classes  of  the  nation 
found  no  representation  in  any  House 
of  the  Diet.     This  is  the  tendency  of 
a  system  of  Estates.     Classes  of  men 
will  arise,  who  have  the  same  interest 
in  the  country  and  the  same  capacity 
for  serviug  it  with  any  of  the  repre- 
sented classes,  but  whom  the  system 
of   representation   shuts    out.     There 
were  men  in  Finland,  as  in  Sweden, 
who  did  not   rank   under  any  of  the 
heads   of    Nobles,   Clergy,    Burghers, 
or     Peasants.      An     Englishman    is 
perhaps  most  struck  with  the  strange 
position     of    all    members    of    noble 
families  save  one  at  a  time.     The  head 
of  each  noble  house  can  either  take 
his  seat  in  the  House  of  Nobles  himself 
or   send  some   other   member   of   his 
family  to  represent  him  there.     The 
rest  of  the  kin  were  till  1869  utterly 
disfranchised.      Their    share    in    the 
House  of  Nobles  was  held  by  another  ; 
nor  could   they   find   a   place  among 
Clergy,  Burghers,  or  Peasants.    Again, 
the  House  of  Burghers  was  narrowly 
confined  to  members  of  incorporated 
guilds,  shutting  out  of  course  many  of 
the  most  intelligent  inhabitants  of  the 
towns.      There  were   landowners  too, 
who,  as  not  coming  under  the  head  of 
either  Nobles  or  Peasants,  were  equally 
disfranchised.     Something  was  done  in 
1869  to  make   things  a  little  wider. 
The    franchise     for     the     House     of 
Burghers  was  largely  extended,  so  as 


to  take  in  all  tax-pajing  inhabitants 
of  the  towns  who  are  not  nobles  or 
clergy.  The  Peasant  House  now  takes 
in  all  landowners  who  are  not  nobles, 
clergy,  or  government  officials — who 
are  altogether  shut  out  from  the 
Diet — and  the  tenants  of  crown  lands. 
The  House  of  Clergy  takes  in  some 
representatives  of  the  University  of 
Helsingfors  and  of  the  public  schools, 
who  may  of  course  be  laymen.  And 
the  utter  disfranchisement  of  the  great 
mass  of  the  descendants  pf  noble 
families  is  slightly  relieved  by  allowing 
them,  if  qualified,  to  elect  and  be 
elected  to  the  House  of  Clergy,  but 
not  to  those  of  Burghers  or  Peasants. 
Thus  those  in  Finland  who  may 
answer  to  North  and  Pitt  and  Fox, 
to  Althorp  and  Stanley,  to  Lord  John 
Russell  and  the  new  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire, could  have  found  their  way  into 
Parliament  only  in  a  clerical  or  aca- 
demical guise,  unless  the  several  peers 
to  whose  families  they  belonged  had 
chosen  to  send  them  to  the  House  of 
Lords  instead  of  themselves. 

Many  patriotic  men  in  Finland  ab- 
stractedly wish  this  system  to  be 
changed.  They  would  in  theory  like 
to  make  the  same  change  which  has 
been  made  in  Sweden,  to  have  two 
Houses  after  the  pattern  of  most  other 
nations.  But  they  do  not  want  to 
touch  anything  just  now.  Who  was 
it  who  had  written  on  his  tomb,  "  I 
was  well ;  but,  trying  to  be  better,  I 
am  here  "  ?  That  is  the  present  feel- 
ing of  Finland.  Some  things  might 
conceivably  be  made  better ;  but  the 
fear  is  that,  if  anything  is  touched, 
it  will  be  made,  not  better  but  worse. 
Finland  is  not  a  land  of  political 
parties.  Such  division  as  there  is  in 
the  country  turns,  as  it  is  sure  to  turn 
wherever  the  materials  for  the  con- 
troversy exist,  on  difference  of  lan- 
guage. Swedish  is  naturally  the  most 
cultivated  language,  the  one  which 
naturally  claims  a  precedence  to  itself. 
But,  just  as  with  Czech  in  Bohemia, 
with  Flemish  in  Belgium,  Finnish, 
the  truer  language  of  the  country,  is 
looking  up.      Both  are  recognized  as 


Finland, 


327 


official  languages ;    and   the   thought 
comes  in  whether,  in  such  a  state  of 
things,  there  are  not  some  advantages 
about  a  sovereign  who  does  not  be- 
long to  either.     But  the  really  won- 
derful thing  is,  not  that  Swedes  and 
Fins  have  sometimes  found  matter  for 
dispute,   but  that  they  have  on   the 
whole  agreed   so  well   as  they  have. 
But    in    Finland    Swedes    and    Fins, 
though  they  may  have  their  disputes 
on  smaller  matters,  are  united  in  a 
common  purpose  to  defend  the  rights 
of  their  common  country.     Are  those 
rights    threatened]      It    is    perhaps 
too    soon    to    speak    with    certainty 
either    way.     But   it   is  certain  that 
a  feeling  of  coming  danger  has  long 
been    spreading     over    the     country. 
The   present   Tzar   and   Grand  Duke 
has   held    the    diets    of    his     Grand 
Duchy  regularly,  even  more  frequently 
than  his  father.     But  he  will  not  go 
on  doing  so  if  he  listens  to  the  clamours 
of  a  large  part  of  his  Kussian  subjects. 
A  dead  set  seems  to  be  making  by  a 
large  part  of  the  Russian  Press  against 
the    chartered    liberties    of    Finland. 
One  would   have   thought   that,  with 
Finland    before    his    eyes,     the    first 
thought  in  the   mind   of    a   patriotic 
Russian  would  be  to  aim  at  levelling 
up,  not  at  levelling  down.     It  woijld 
surely   be   a   nobler   work    ip-^^^^^^e 
Russia    as    FinlandjJ>r:r    uo    make 
Finland    as    RufS^Su      It    is     widely 
believed  that  that   was   the   mind  of 
Alexander  the  Second,  that  he   who 
had  so  carefully  restored  the  rights  of 
his    lesser   dominion   was,  when  both 
his  dominions  lost  him,  pondering  how 
to  extend  equal  rights  to  the  greater. 
But    with    large   classes   at    least    in 
Russia  it  seems  to  be  thought  patriotic 
to  assert  the  unity  of  the  empire,  and 
to  speak  of  the  liberties  of  Finland  as 
a  blot  on  the  face  of  that  unity.     It 
is  argued  that,  when  Alexander   the 
First  with  his  own  mouth  proclaimed 
that   the   people   of    Finland    were   a 
free    nation,    he    did    not  know  what 
he  was  saying.      All  that  he  meant 
was  that  he  was  enlarging  his  empire 
by  a   new  province,  to   which  of  his 


grace  he  granted  some  privileges 
which  he  or  his  successors  might  at  any 
moment  take  away.  Of  his  own 
grace  it  certainly  was  that  Alexander 
the  First  used  the  rights  of  conquest 
as  no  other  conqueror  before  him  ever 
used  them.  But  it  is  a  strange  argu- 
ment to  infer  that  because  a  thing 
was  graciously  given,  it  may,  without 
breach  of  faith,  without  scorn  of  a 
monarch's  kingly  word,  be  ungra- 
ciously taken  back  again. 

Besides  this  generally  threatening 
temper     in     Russia,     the    immediate 
ground  of  dread  is  the  appointment  of 
a  commission,  Russian  and   Finnish, 
to   codify   the    fundamental    laws   of 
Finland.     Patriotic  Finlanders,  Swed- 
ish and  Finnish,  say  that  it  is  better 
to  let  well  alone.     They  do  not  know 
what  "  codification'*  may  mean,   and 
whatever  it  means,   they  had  rather 
not  have  it  just  now.      It   is  not  a 
moment  for  reform,  when  things  look 
so   much   as   if    reform   might   haply 
turn   to   destruction.      The  belief   in 
Finland  is  that  reform,  that  "  codifica- 
tion,"  in  the  eyes  of  some  who  have 
power    and  influence,  means  nothing 
short  of  the  overthrow  of  the  liberties 
of    the   Grand   Duchy,    the    liberties 
which  the  first   Alexander  preserved 
in     the   moment     of    conquest,     and 
to    which    his   successors,    peacefully 
succeeding,  l^ve  each  one  plighted  his 
kingly  word.     Rumour  points  to  pro- 
jected changes  of  no  small  moment. 
If  some  schemes  that  are  believed  to 
be  under  discussion  are  carried   out, 
the  political  and   religious   independ- 
ence, the  very  national  being,  of  the 
Finnish  nation  is  to  be  blotted  out. 
The   national  Church,  secured  by  the 
plighted  word  of  the  first  conqueror, 
is  to  sink  to  the  position  of  a  tolerated 
sect,    while    the   Orthodox  creed — to 
Russia  a  cherished  badge  of  national 
life,  to  Finland  the  very  opposite — is 
to  be  set  in  its  place  as  the  established 
religion  of  the  Grand  Duchy  as  well 
as  of  the  empire.     Offices  in  Finland 
are,  it  is  said,  to  be  opened  to  all  sub- 
jects of  the  Russian  crown,  including 
men  to  whom  both  the  languages  of 


328 


Finland. 


Finland  may  be  unknown.  And, 
though  the  Diet  may  still  possibly  be 
allowed  to  meet,  yet  it  is  believed  that 
a  change  is  coming  by  which  the 
Grand  Duke  may,  if  he  think  good, 
legislate  in  Finland,  as  in  Russia,  of 
his  own  will,  whether  the  Estates  of 
the  Duchy  consent  or  no.  A  writer 
in  another  land,  who  has  no  means  of 
prying  into  the  secrets  of  princes  and 
their  advisers,  can  put  forth  such 
statements  as  these  only  as  rumours. 
He  may  hope  that  no  such  purposes  are 
really  entertained  ;  he  may  hope  that,  if 
they  are  entertained,  something  may 
still  step  in  to  thwart  them.  He  can 
only  say  that  changes  of  this  kind  are 
believed  to  be  threatening.  For  him- 
self he  can  go  no  farther  than  to  say 
that  things  can  hardly  be  in  &  whole- 
some state,  that  there  can  hardly  be 
that  confidence  which  there  ought  to 
be  between  prince  and  people,  that 
confidence  which  not  many  years 
back  there  undoubtedly  was,  when 
rumours  of  purposes  like  these  can  so 
much  as  be  believed. 

Grievous  indeed  it  would  be  if  the 
cherished  rights  of  this  interesting 
corner  of  Europe,  so  rich  in  memories 
of  early  days  and  early  races,  should 
be  swept  away  out  of  mere  caprice. 
It  was  sad  when  the  last  trace  of  the 
liberties  of  Poland  was  blotted  out ; 
but  Poland  had  at  least  twice  revolted  ; 
even  from  Alexander  the  Second  we 
could  not  look  for  a  virtue  so  super- 
human that  no  king  or  commonwealth 
ever  practised  it,  the  virtue  of  letting  a 
people  go,  simply  because  they  wish  to 
be  let  go.  But  all  that  Alexander  the 
Third  is  called  on  to  do  is  simply  to  do 
nothing,  to  leave  alone  the  good  work 
which  Alexander  the  First  began  and 
which  Alexander  the  Second  carried 
to  perfection.  Well  may  the  world 
weep,  well  may  Russia  and  Finland 
weep,  for  the  day  when  the  mur- 
derer's hand  cut  short  the  high  career 
of  the  Deliverer.  Had  he  lived,  we 
should  not  have  seen  Bulgaria  driven 
to  see  friends  in  the  Turk  and  the 
Austrian  rather  than  in  the  son  and 
the  people  of  him  who  set  her  free. 


Had  he  lived,  there  would  have  been 
no  fear  of  Finland  being  dragged 
down  to  the  level  of  Russia;  there 
might  have  been  a  hope  of  Russia 
being  lifted  up  to  the  level  of  Finland. 
The  prospect  is  gloomy,  gloomiest  of 
all  is  it  for  those  who  wished  the 
father  God  speed  on  every  step  of 
his  path  of  glory,  and  who  mourn  the 
more  that  they  have  to  look  out  with 
fear  and  trembling  for  every  coming 
step  in  the  path  of  the  son.  It  would 
be  grievous  if  the  cause  of  Finnish 
freedom  should  be  turned  to  the  base 
purposes  of  the  vulgar  slanderers  of 
Russia,  of  those  who  seem  to  take  a 
fiend's  delight  in  stirring  up  strife 
between  the  two  powers  who  are  called 
above  all  others  to  the  deliverance  of 
the  South-eastern  lands.  It  is  for 
them  to  speak  to  whom  Russia,  hep 
people  and  her  rulers,  are  simply  like 
the  people  and  the  rulers  of  any  other 
nation  ;  it  is  for  them  who  can,  in  the 
case  of  Russia  as  in  any  other  case, 
applaud  wise  and  righteous  dealing 
and  condemn  dealing  which  is  unwise 
and  unrighteous.  In  the  great  meet- 
ing of  December  1876,  the  meeting 
which  saved  us  from  a  war  yet  more 
needless  and  unrighteous  than  that  of 
1864,  no  name  drew  forth  louder 
cheers  than  every  mention  of  Russia, 
her  people  and  her  prince.  And  those 
cheers  were  well  deserved.  Those  who 
raised  them  then,  who  would  raise 
them  again  in  the  like  case,  would 
hardly  raise  them  now,  when  they 
look  to  the  past  and  the  present  of  Bul- 
garia, to  the  future  that  may  be  of 
Finland.  Still  the  blow  has  not 
fallen ;  there  is  still  hope  that  it  may 
not  fall.  What  Bohemia  has  been 
robbed  of,  what  Ireland  yearns  for, 
Finland  still  keeps.  The  third  Alex- 
ander has  still  time  to  turn  about  and 
walk  in  the  steps  of  the  first  and  of 
the  second.  Let  him  school  himself  to 
do  the  deeds  of  his  father,  and  the 
blessings  that  waited  on  his  father 
will  wait  on  him. 

Edward  A.  Freeman. 


S29 


DON  ORSINOJ 


BY   F.  MARION   CRAWFORD. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Princess  Sant'  Ilario's  early 
life  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the 
great  makers  of  human  character,  sor- 
row and  happiness.  She  had  suffered 
profoundly,  she  had  borne  her  trials 
with  a  rare  courage,  and  her  reward,  if 
one  may  call  it  so,  had  been  very  great. 
She  had  seen  the  world  and  known  it 
well,  and  the  knowledge  had  not  been 
forgotten  in  the  peaceful  prosperity  of 
later  years.  Gifted  with  a  beauty  not 
equalled,  perhaps,  in  those  times,  en- 
dowed with  a  strong  and  passionate 
nature  under  a  singularly  cold  and 
calm  outward  manner,  she  had  been 
saved  from  many  dangers  by  the 
rarest  of  commonplace  qualities,  com- 
mon sense.  She  had  never  passed  for 
an  intellectual  person,  she  had  never 
been  very  brilliant  in  conversation, 
she  had  even  been  thought  old- 
fashioned  in  her  prejudices  concern- 
ing the  books  she  read.  But  her 
judgment  had  rarely  failed  her  at 
critical  moments.  Once  only  she 
remembered  having  committed  a  great 
mistake,  of  which  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  consequences  had  almost 
wrecked  her  life.  But  in  that  case  she 
had  suffered  her  heart  to  lead  her,  an 
innocent  girl's  good  name  had  been  at 
stake,  and  she  had  rashly  taken  a 
responsibility  too  heavy  for  love  itself 
to  bear.  Those  days  were  long  past 
now  ;  twenty  years  separated  Corona, 
the  mother  of  four  tall  sons,  from  the 
Corona  who  had  risked  all  to  save  poor 
little  Flavia  Monte varchi. 

But  even  she  knew  that  a  state  of 
such  perpetual  and  unclouded  happi- 
ness could  hardly  last  a  lifetime,  and 
she  had  forced  herself,  almost  laughing 


at  the  thought,  to  look  forward  to  the 
day  when  Orsino  must  cease  to  be  a 
boy  and  must  face  the  world  of  strong 
loves  and  hates  through  which  most 
men  have  to  pass,  and  which  all  men 
must  have  known  in  order  to  be  men 
indeed. 

The  people  whose  lives  are  full  of 
the  most  romantic  incidents,  are  not 
generally,  I  think,  people  of  romantic 
disposition.  Romance,  like  power, 
will  come  uncalled  for,  and  those  who 
seek  it  most,  are  often  those  who  find 
it  least.  And  the  reason  is  simple 
enough.  The  man  of  heart  is  not 
perpetually  burrowing  in  his  surround- 
ings for  affections  upon  which  his 
heart  may  feed,  any  more  than  the 
very  strong  man  is  naturally  impelled 
to  lift  every  weight  he  sees  or  to  fight 
with  every  man  he  meets.  The  per- 
sons whom  others  call  romantic  are 
rarely  conscious  of  being  so.  They 
are  generally  far  too  much  occupied 
with  the  one  great  thought  which 
makes  their  strongest,  bravest,  and 
meanest  actions  seem  perfectly  com- 
monplace to  themselves.  Corona  Del 
Carmine,  who  had  heroically  sacrificed 
herself  in  her  earliest  girlhood  to 
save  her  father  from  ruin,  and  who  a 
few  years  later  had  risked  a  priceless 
happiness  to  shield  a  foolish  girl,  had 
not  in  her  whole  life  been  conscious  of 
a  single  romantic  instinct.  Brave, 
devoted,  but  unimaginative  by  nature, 
she  had  followed  her  heart's  direction 
in  most  worldly  matters. 

She  was  amazed  to  find  that  she 
was  becoming  romantic  now,  in  her 
dreams  for  Orsino' s  future.  All  sorts 
of  ideas  which  she  would  have  laughed 
at  in  her  own  youth  flitted  through 
her    brain   from   morning   till   night. 


Copyright  1891,  by  Macmillan  and  Co. 


330 


Don  Orsino, 


Her  fancy  built  up  a  life  for  her  eldest 
son,  which  she  knew  to  be  far  from 
the  possibility  of  realisation,  but 
which  had  for  her  a  new  and  strange 
attraction. 

She  planned  for  him  the  most  unima- 
ginable happiness,  of  a  kind  which  would 
perhaps  have  hardly  satisfied  his  more 
modern  instincts.  She  saw  a  maiden 
of  indescribable  beauty,  brought  up 
in  unapproachable  perfections,  guarded 
by  the  all  but  insuperable  jealousy  of 
an  ideal  home.  Orsino  was  to  love 
this  vision,  and  none  other,  from  the 
first  meeting  to  the  term  of  his  natural 
life,  and  was  to  win  her  in  the  face 
of  difficulties  such  as  would  have  made 
even  Giovanni,  the  incomparable,  look 
grave.  This  radiant  creature  was  also 
to  love  Orsino,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
with  a  love  vastly  more  angelic  than 
human,  but  not  hastily  nor  thought- 
lessly, lest  Orsino  should  get  her  too 
easily  and  not  value  her  as  he  ought. 
Then  she  saw  the  two  betrothed,  side 
by  side  on  shady  lawns  and  moonlit 
terraces,  in  a  perfectly  beautiful  inti- 
macy such  as  they  would  certainly 
never  enjoy  in  the  existing  conditions 
of  their  own  society.  But  that 
mattered  little.  The  wooing,  the 
winning,  and  the  marrying  of  the 
exquisite  girl  were  to  make  up  Orsino's 
life,  and  fifty  or  sixty  years  of  idyllic 
happiness  were  to  be  the  reward  of 
their  mutual  devotion.  Had  she  not 
spent  twenty  such  years  herself  ?  Then 
why  should  not  all  the  rest  be 
possible  1 

The  dreams  came  and  went  and  she 
was  too  sensible  not  to  laugh  at  them. 
That  was  not  the  youth  of  Giovanni, 
her  husband,  nor  of  men  who  even 
faintly  resembled  him  in  her  estima- 
tion. Giovanni  had  wandered  far,  had 
seen  much,  and  had  undoubtedly 
indulged-  more  than  one  passing  affec- 
tion, before  he  had  been  thirty  years 
of  age  and  had  loved  Corona.  Gio- 
vanni would  laugh  too,  if  she  told 
him  of  her  vision  of  two  young  and 
beautiful  married  saints.  And  his 
laugh  would  be  more  sincere  than  her 
own.     Nevertheless  her  dreams  haunt- 


ed her,  as  they  have  haunted  many  a 
loving  mother,  ever  since  Althaea 
plucked  from  the  flame  the  burning 
brand  that  measured  Meleager's  life, 
and  smothered  the  sparks  upon  it  and 
hid  it  away  among  her  treasures. 

Such  things  seem  foolish,  no  doubt, 
in  the  measure  of  fact,  in  the  glaring 
light  of  our  day.  The  thought  is 
none  the  less  noble.  The  dream  of  an 
untainted  love,  the  vision  of  unspotted 
youth  and  pure  maiden,  the  glory  of 
unbroken  faith  kept  whole  by  man  and 
wife  in  holy  wedlock,  the  pride  of 
stainless  name  and  stainless  race — 
these  things  are  not  less  high  because 
there  is  a  sublimity  in  the  strength  of 
a  great  sin  which  may  lie  the  closer  to 
our  sympathy,  as  the  sinning  is  the 
nearer  to  our  weakness. 

When  old  Saracinesca  looked  up 
from  under  his  bushy  brows  and 
laughed  and  said  that  his  grandson  was 
in  love,  he  thought  no  more  of  what 
he  said  than  if  he  had  remarked  that 
Orsino's  beard  was  growing  or  that 
Giovanni's  was  turning  grey.  But 
Corona's  pretty  fancies  received  a 
shock  from  which  they  never  recovered 
again,  and  though  she  did  her  best  to 
call  them  back  they  lost  all  their 
reality  from  that  hour.  The  plain  fact 
that  at  one-and-twenty  years  the  boy 
is  a  man,  though  a  very  young  one, 
was  made  suddenly  clear  to  her  ;  and 
she  was  faced  by  another  fact  still 
more  destructive  of  her  ideals,  namely 
that  a  man  is  not  to  be  kept  from 
falling  in  love,  when  and  where  he  is 
so  inclined,  by  any  personal  influence 
whatsoever.  She  knew  that  well 
enough,  and  the  supposition  that  his 
first  young  passion  might  be  for 
Madame  d'Aranjuez  was  by  no  means 
comforting.  Corona  immediately  felt 
an  interest  in  that  lady  which  she  had 
not  felt  before  and  which  was  not 
altogether  friendly. 

It  seemed  to  her  necessary  in  the 
first  place  to  find  out  something  defi- 
nite concerning  Maria  Consuelo,  and 
this  was  no  easy  matter.  She  com- 
municated her  wish  to  her  husband 
when  they  were  alone  that  evening. 


Don  Orsino. 


331 


"I  know  nothing  about  her/' 
answered  Giovanni ;  "  and  I  do  not 
know  any  one  who  does.  After  all  it 
is  of  very  little  importance.'* 

"  What  if  he  falls  seriously  in  love 
with  this  woman?" 

"  We  will  send  him  round  the  world. 
At  his  age  that  will  cure  anything. 
When  he  comes  back  Madame 
d'Aranjuez  will  have  retired  to  the 
chaos  of  the  unknown  out  of  which 
Orsino  has  evolved  her." 

"  She  does  not  look  the  kind  of 
woman  to  disappear  at  the  right  mo- 
ment," observed  Corona  doubtfully. 

Giovanni  was  at  that  moment 
supremely  comfortable,  both  in  mind 
and  body.  It  was  late.  The  old 
prince  had  gone  to  his  own  quarters, 
the  boys  were  in  bed,  and  Orsino  was 
presumably  at  a  party  or  at  the  club. 
Sant'  liario  was  enjoying  the  delight 
of  spending  an  hour  alone  in  his  wife's 
society.  They  were  in  Corona's  old 
boudoir,  a  place  full  of  associations  for 
them  both.  He  did  not  want  to  be 
mentally  disturbed.  He  said  nothing  in 
answer  to  his  wife's  remark.  She 
repeated  it  in  a  different  form. 

**  Women  like  her  do  not  disappear 
when  one  does  not  want  them,"  she  said. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  1 "  in- 
quired Giovanni  with  a  man's  irritat- 
ing indolence  when  he  does  not  mean 
to  grasp  a  disagreeable  idea. 

"I  know  it,"  Corona  answered, 
resting  her  chin  upon  her  hand  and 
staring  at  the  fire. 

Giovanni  surrendered  uncondition- 
ally. 

"  You  are  probably  right,  dear. 
You  always  are  about  people." 

**  Well— then  you  must  see  the 
importance  of  what  I  say,"  said 
Corona  pushing  her  victory. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  answered 
Giovanni,  squinting  at  the  flames 
with  one  eye  between  his  outstretched 
fin<^ers. 

**  I  wish  you  would  wake  up ! " 
exclaimed  Corona,  taking  the  hand  in 
hers  and  drawing  it  to  her.  "  Orsino 
is  probably  making  love  to  Madame 
d'Aranjuez  at  this  very  moment." 


**  Then  I  will  imitate  him,  and  make 
love  to  you,  my  dear.  I  could  not  be 
better  occupied,  and  you  know  it. 
You  used  to  say  I  did  it  very  well." 

Corona  laughed  in  her  deep,  soft 
voice. 

"  Orsino  is  like  you.  That  is  what 
frightens  me.  He  will  make  love  too 
well.  Be  serious,  Giovanni  ;  think  of 
what  I  am  saying." 

"  Let  us  dismiss  the  question  then, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  there  is 
absolutely  nothing  to  be  done.  We 
cannot  turn  this  good  woman  out  of 
Rome,  and  we  cannot  lock  Orsino  up 
in  his  room.  To  tell  a  boy  not  to 
bestow  his  affections  in  a  certain 
quarter  is  like  ramming  a  charge  into 
a  gun  and  then  expecting  that  it  will 
not  come  out  by  the  same  way.  The 
harder  you  ram  it  down  the  more 
noise  it  makes — that  is  all.  Encourage 
him,  and  he  may  possibly  tire  of  it. 
Hinder  him,  and  he  will  become 
inconveniently  heroic." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  true,"  said 
Corona.  **  Then  at  least  find  out  who 
the  woman  is,"  she  added  after  a  pause. 

"I  will  try,"  Giovanni  answered. 
"  I  will  even  go  to  the  length  of 
spending  an  hour  a  day  at  the  club,  if 
hat  will  do  any  good — and  you  know 
how  I  detest  clubs.  But  if  anything 
whatever  is  known  of  her,  it  will  be 
known  there." 

Giovanni  kept  his  word  and  ex- 
pended more  energy  in  attempting  to 
find  out  something  about  Madame 
d'Aranjuez  during  the  next  few  days 
than  he  had  devoted  to  anything  con- 
nected with  society  for  a  long  time. 
Nearly  a  week  elapsed  before  his 
efforts  met  with  any  success. 

He  was  in  the  club  one  afternoon  at 
an  early  hour,  reading  the  papers,  and 
not  more  than  three  or  four  other  men 
were  present.  Among  them  were 
Frangipani  and  Montevarchi,  who  was 
formerly  known  as  Ascanio  Bellegra. 
There  was  also  a  certain  young 
foreigner,  a  diplomatist,  who,  like 
Sant'  Ilario,  was  reading  a  paper, 
most  probably  in  search  of  an  idea 
for  the  next  visit  on  his  list. 


332 


Don  Orsino. 


Giovanni  suddenly  came  upon  a  de- 
scription of  a  dinner  and  reception  given 
by  Del  Ferice  and  his  wife.  The  para- 
graph was  written  in  the  usual  florid 
style  with  a  fine  generosity  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  titles  to  unknown  persons. 
**  The  centre  of  all  attraction/'  said 
the  reporter,  "  was  a  most  beautiful 
Spanish  princess,  Donna  Maria  Con- 

suelo  d*A z  d'A a,    in   whose 

mysterious  eyes  are  reflected  the  divine 
fires  of  a  thousand  triumphs,  and  who 
was  gracefully  attired  in  olive  green 
brocade " 

"Oh!  Is  that  it?"  said  Sant' 
Ilario  aloud  and  in  the  peculiar  tone 
always  used  by  a  man  who  makes  a 
discovery  in  a  daily  paper. 

"What  is  itl"  inquired  Frangi- 
pani  and  Montevarchi  in  the  same 
breath.  The  young  diplomatist 
looked  up  with  an  air  of  interrogation. 

Sant'  Ilario  read  the  paragraph 
aloud.  All  three  listened  as  though 
the  fate  of  empires  depended  on  the 
facts  reported. 

"  Just  like  the  newspapers !  "  ex- 
claimed Frangipani.  "  There  probably 
is  no  such  person.  Is  there, 
Ascanioi" 

Montevarchi  had  always  been  a 
weak  fellow,  and  was  reported  to  be 
at  present  very  deep  in  the  building 
speculations  of  the  day.  But  there 
was  one  point  upon  which  he  justly 
prided  himself.  He  was  a  superior 
authority  on  genealogy.  It  was  his 
passion,  and  no  one  ever  disputed  his 
knowledge  or  decision.  He  stroked 
his  fair  beard,  looked  out  of  the 
window,  winked  his  pale  blue  eyes 
once  or  twice  and  then  gave  his 
verdict. 

"  There  is  no  such  person,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  prince,"  said 
the  young  diplomatist,  "I  have  met 
her.     She  exists." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  answered  Monte- 
varchi, "  I  do  not  doubt  the  existence 
of  the  woman,  as  such,  and  I  would 
certainly  not  think  of  disagreeing 
with  you,  even  if  I  had  the  slightest 
ground  for  doing  so,  which,  I  hasten 


to  say,  I  have  not.  Nor,  of  course,  if 
she  is  a  friend  of  yours,  would  I  like 
to  say  more  on  the  subject.  But  I 
have  taken  some  little  interest  in 
genealogy  and  I  have  a  modest  library 
— about  two  thousand  volumes  only 
— consisting  solely  of  works  on  the 
subject,  all  of  which  I  have  read  and 
many  of  which  I  have  carefully 
annotated.  I  need  not  say  that  they 
are  all  at  your  disposal  if  you  should 
desire  to  make  any  researches." 

Montevarchi  had  much  of  his 
murdered  father's  manner,  without 
the  old  man's  strength.  The  young 
Secretary  of  Embassy  was  rather 
startled  at  the  idea  of  searching 
through  two  thousand  volumes  in 
pursuit  of  Madame  d'Aranjuez's 
identity.     Sant'  Ilario  laughed. 

"  I  only  mean  that  I  have  met  the 
lady,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Of 
coiu*se  you  are  right.  I  have  no  idea 
who  she  may  really  be.  I  have  heard 
odd  stories  about  her." 

"Oh— have  you?"  asked  Sant' 
Ilario  with  renewed  interest. 

"Yes,  very  odd."  He  paused  and 
looked  round  the  room  to  assure 
himself  that  no  one  else  was  present. 
"  There  are  two  distinct  stories 
about  her.  The  first  is  this.  They 
say  that  she  is  a  South  American 
prima  donna,  who  sang  only  a  few 
months,  at  Bio  de  Janeiro  and  then  at 
Buenos  Ayres.  An  Italian,  who  had 
gone  out  there  and  made  a  fortune, 
married  her  from  the  stage.  In 
coming  to  Europe  he  unfortunately 
fell  overboard,  and  she  inherited  all  his 
money.  People  say  that  she  was  the 
only  person  who  witnessed  the  accident. 
The  man's  name  was  Aragno.  She 
twisted  it  once  and  made  Aranjuez  of 
it,  and  she  turned  it  again  and  dis- 
covered that  it  spelled  Aragona.  That 
is  the  first  story.  It  sounds  well  at  all 
events." 

"  Very,"  said  Sant'  Ilario  with  a 
laugh. 

"A  profoundly  interesting  page  in 
genealogy,  if  she  happens  to  marry 
somebody,"  observed  Montevarchi, 
mentally  noting  all  the  facts. 


Don  Qi'sino. 


333 


"What  is  the  other  story]'  asked 
Frangipani. 

"The  other  story  is  much  less 
concise  and  detailed.  According  to 
this  version,  she  is  the  daughter  of  a 
certain  royal  personage  and  of  a  Polish 
countess.  There  is  always  a  Polish 
countess  in  those  stories  !  She  was 
never  married.  The  royal  personage 
has  had  her  educated  in  a  convent  and 
has  sent  her  out  into  the  wide  world 
with  a  pretty  fancy  name  of  his  own 
invention,  plentifully  supplied  with 
money  and  regular  docimients  referring 
to  her  union  with  the  imaginary 
Aranjuez,  and  protected  by  a  sort  of 
body-guard  of  mutes  and  duennas  who 
never  appear  in  public.  She  is  of 
course  to  make  a  great  match  for 
herself,  and  has  come  to  Rome  to  do 
it.     That  is  also  a  pretty  tale." 

"  More  interesting  than  the  other," 
said  Monte varchi.  "  These  side  lights 
of  genealogy,  these  stray  rivulets  of 
royal  races,  if  I  may  so  poetically  call 
them,  possess  an  absorbing  interest  for 
the  student.    I  will  make  a  note  of  it." 

"  Of  course,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the 
truth  of  a  single  word  in  either  story," 
observed  the  young  man.  "Of  the 
two  the  first  is  the  less  improbable. 
I  have  met  her  and  talked  to  her  and 
she  is  certainly  not  less  than  five-ahd- 
twenty  years  old.  She  may  be  more. 
In  any  case  she  is  •  too  old  to  have 
been  just  let  out  of  a  convent." 

"  Perhaps  she  has  been  loose  for 
some  years,"  observed  Sant'  Ilario, 
speaking  of  her  as  though  she  were  a 
dangerous  wild  animal. 

"  We  should  have  heard  of  her," 
objected  the  other.  "  She  has  the  sort 
of  personality  which  is  noticed  any- 
where and  which  makes  itself  felt." 

"  Then  you  incline  to  the  belief 
that  she  dropped  the  Signor  Aragno 
quietly  overboard  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of   the  equator  ?  " 

**  The  real  story  may  be  quite 
different  from  either  of  those  I  have 
told  you." 

"  And  she  is  a  friend  of  poor  old 
Donna  Tullia ! "  exclaimed  Monte- 
varchi  regretfully.     "I  am  sorry  for 


that.  For  the  sake  of  her  history  I 
could  almost  have  gone  to  the  length 
of  making  her  acquaintance." 

**  How  the  Del  Ferice  would  rave  if 
she  could  hear  you  call  her  poor  old 
Donna  Tullia,"  observed  Frangipani. 
"  I  remember  how  she  danced  at  the 
ball  when  I  came  of  age  1 " 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago, 
Filippo,"  said  Montevarchi  thought- 
fully, "a  very  long  time  ago.  We 
were  all  young  once,  Filippo — but 
Donna  Tullia  is  really  only  fit  to  fill  a 
glass  case  in  a  museum  of  natural 
history  now." 

The  remark  was  not  original,  and 
had  been  in  circulation  some  time. 
But  the  three  men  laughed  a  little  and 
Montevarchi  was  much  pleased  by 
their  appreciation.  He  and  Frangi- 
pani began  to  talk  together,  and  Sant' 
Ilario  took  up  his  paper  again.  When 
the  young  diplomatist  laid  his  own 
aside  and  went  out,  Giovanni  followed 
him,  and  they  left  the  club  together. 

"  Have  you  any  reason  to  believe 
that  there  is  anything  irregular  about 
this  Madame  d' Aranjuez  ? "  asked 
Sant'  Ilario. 

"No.  Stories  of  that  kind  are 
generally  inventions.  She  has  not 
been  presented  at  Court — but  that 
means  nothing  here.  And  there  is  a 
doubt  about  her  nationality — but  no 
one  has  asked  her  directly  about  it." 

"  May  I  ask  who  told  you  the 
stories?" 

The  young  man's  face  immediately 
lost  all  expression. 

"Really — I  have  quite  forgotten," 
he  said.  "People  have  been  talking 
about  her." 

Sant'  Ilario  justly  concluded  that 
his  companion's  informant  was  a 
lady,  and  probably  one  in  whom  the 
diplomatist  was  interested.  Discre- 
tion is  so  rare  that  it  can  easily  be 
traced  to  its  causes.  Giovanni  left 
the  young  man  and  walked  away  in 
the  opposite  direction,  inwardly 
meditating  a  piece  of  diplomacy  quite 
foreign  to  his  nature.  He  said  to 
himself  that  he  would  watch  the  man 
in  the  world  and  that  it  would  be  easy 


334 


Don  Orsino. 


to  guess  who  the  lady  in  question  was. 
It  would  have  been  clear  to  any  one 
but  himself  that  he  was  not  likely  to 
learn  anything  worth  knowing  by  his 
present  mode  of  procedure. 

"Gouacjie/'  he  said,  entering  the 
artist's  studio  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later,  "  do  you  know  anything  about 
Madame  d'AranjuezI'* 

"  That  is  all  I  know,''  Gouache 
answered,  pointing  to  Maria  Consuelo's 
portrait  which  stood  finished  upon  an 
easel  before  him,  set  in  an  old  frame. 
He  had  been  touching  it  when  Giovanni 
entered.  "  That  is  all  I  know,  and  I 
do  not  know  that  thoroughly.  I  wish 
I  did.     She  is  a  wonderful  subject." 

Sant'  Ilario  gazed  at  the  picture  in 
silence. 

"  Are  her  eyes  really  like  these  1 " 
he  asked  at  length. 

"Much  finer." 

"  And  her  mouth  ?  " 

"Much  larger,"  answered  Gouache 
with  a  smile. 

"  She  is  bad,"  said  Giovanni  with 
conviction,  and  he  thought  of  the 
Signor  Aragno. 

"  Women  are  never  bad,"  observed 
Gouache  with  a  thoughtful  air. 
"  Some  are  less  angelic  than  others. 
You  need  only  tell  them  all  so  to 
assure  yourself  of  the  fact." 

"I  dare  say.     What  is  this  person  ? 
^rench,  Spanish — South  American  ?  " 
^^1"/^*  I  have  not  the  least  idea.     She  is 
*'  „    ^rench,  at  all  events." 

^^        Nrcuse  me — does  your  wife  know 
Gouache\ 

visitor's  face.       glanced    quicWy    at    his 
"No."  "^  H  J 

Gouache  was  a  sib 

«_ 

and  he  did  his  best,  ^uiarly  kind  man, 
reasons  of  his  own,  to  convt^  perhaps  for 
by  the  monosyllable  beyond  the  -uq-  nothing 
negation  of  a  fact.  But  the  e^  /simple 
was  not  altogether  successful.  Tn^^^  ffQ^t 
was  an  almost  imperceptible  shade  \  -^re 
surprise  in  the  tone  which  did  ncL^^j^^f 
escape  Giovanni.  On  the  other  hanv^j^^^t 
it  was  perfectly  clear  to  Gouache  thau^j^ji 
Sant'  Ilario's  interest  in  the  matter 
was  connected  with  Orsino. 


"  I  cannot  find  any  one  who  knows 
anything  definite,"  said  Giovanni  after 
a  pause. 

"  Have  you  tried  Spicca  1 "  asked 
the  artist,  examining  his  work 
critically. 

"No.     Why  Spicca?" 

"  He  always  knows  everything," 
answered  Gouache  vaguely.  "  By  the 
way,  Saracinesca,  do  you  not  think 
there  might  be  a  little  more  light  just 
over  the  left  eye  % " 

"  How  should  I  know  ]  " 

"  You  ought  to  know.  What  is 
the  use  of  having  been  brought  up 
under  the  very  noses  of  original 
portraits,  all  painted  by  the  best 
masters  and  doubtless  ordered  by  your 
ancestgrs  at  a  very  considerable 
expense — if  you  do  not  know]" 

Giovanni  laughed. 

"  My  dear  old  friend,"  he  said  good- 
humouredly,  "have  you  known  us 
nearly  five-and-twenty  years  without 
discovering  that  it  is  our  peculiar 
privilege  to  be  ignorant  without 
reproach  1 " 

Gouache  laughed  in  his  turn. 

**You  do  not  often  make  sharp 
remarks — but  when  you  do !  " 

Giovanni  left  the  studio  very  sooiiy 
and  went  in  search  of  Spicca.  It  was 
no  easy  matter  to  find  the  peripatetic 
cynic  on  a  winter's  afternoon,  but 
Gouache's  remark  had  seemed  to  mean 
something,  and  Sant'  Ilario  saw  a 
faint  glimmer  of  hope  in  the  distance. 
He  knew  Spicca' s  habits  very  well, 
and  was  aware  that  when  the  sun  was 
low  he  would  certainly  turn  into  one 
of  the  many  houses  where  he  was 
intimate,  and  spend  an  hour  over  a 
cup  of  tea.  The  difficulty  lay  in 
ascertaining  which  particular  fireside 
he  would  select  on  that  afternoon. 
Giovanni  hastilv  sketched  a  route  for 
himself  and  asked  the  porter  at  each 
of  his  friends'  houses  if  Spicca  had 
entered.  Fortune  favoured  him  at 
last.  Spicca  was*  drinking  his  tea 
with  the  March esa  di  San  Giacinto. 

Giovanni  paused  a  moment  before 
the  gateway  of  the  palace  in  \^ch  Sail 
riacinto   had  inhabited  a  large  hired 


Don  Orsino. 


335 


apartment  for  many  years.  He  did 
not  see  much  of  his  cousin,  now,  on 
account  of  differences  in  political 
opinion,  and  he  had  no  reason  what- 
ever for  calling  on  Flavia,  especially 
as  formal  New  Year's  visits  had  lately 
been  exchanged.  However,  as  San 
Giacinto  was  now  a  leading  authority 
on  questions  of  landed  property  in  the 
city,  it  struck  him  that  he  could 
pretend  a  desire  to  see  Flavians 
husband,  and  make  that  an  excuse  for 
staying  a  long  time,  if  necessary,  in 
order   to   wait    for   him. 

He  found  Flavia  and  Spicca  alone 
together,  with  a  small  tea-table 
between  them.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  smoke  of  cigarettes,  which 
clung  to  the  oriental  curtains  and 
hung  in  clouds  about  the  rare  palms 
and  plants.  Everything  in  the  San 
Giacinto  house  was  large,  comfortable, 
and  unostentatious.  There  was  not  a 
chair  to  be  seen  which  might  not 
have  held  the  giant's  frame.  San 
Giacinto  was  a  wonderful  judge  of 
what  was  good.  If  he  paid  twice  as 
much  as  Montevarchi  for  a  horse,  the 
horse  turned  out  to  be  capable  of  four 
times  the  work.  If  he  bought  a 
picture  at  a  sale,  it  was  discovered  to 
be  by  some  good  master  and  other 
people  wondered  why  they  had  lost 
courage  in  the  bidding  for  a  trifle  of  a 
hundred  francs.  Nothing  ever  turned 
out  badly  with  him,  but  no  success 
had  the  power  to  shake  his  solid 
prudence.  No  one  knew  how  rich  he 
was,  but  those  who  had  watched  him 
understood  that  he  would  never  let 
the  world  guess  at  half  his  fortune. 
He  was  a  giant  in  all  ways  and  he  had 
shown  what  he  could  do  when  he  had 
dominated  Flavia  during  the  first 
year  of  their  marriage.  She  had  at 
first  been  proud  of  him,  but  about  the 
time  when  she  would  have  wearied  of 
another  man,  she  discovered  that  she 
feared  him  in  a  way  she  certainly  did 
not  fear  the  devil.  Yet  he  had  never 
spoken  a  harsh  word  to  her  in  his  life. 
But  ther.e  was  something  positively 
appalling  to  her  in  his  enormous 
strength,  rarely  exhibited  and  never 


without  good  reason,  but  always 
quietly  present,  as  the  outline  of  a 
vast  mountain  reflected  in  a  placid 
lake.  Then  she  discovered  to  her 
great  surprise  that  he  really  loved  her, 
which  she  had  not  expected,  and  at 
the  end  of  three  years  he  became 
aware  that  she  loved  him,  which  was 
still  more  astonishing.  As  usual,  his 
investment  had  turned  out  well. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking 
Flavia  was  a  slight,  graceful  woman 
of  forty  years  or  thereabouts,  retaining 
much  of  the  brilliant  prettiness  which 
served  her  for  beauty,  and  conspicuous 
always  for  her  extremely  bright  eyes. 
She  was  of  the  type  of  women  who 
live  to  a  great  age. 

She  had  not  expected  to  see  Sant' 
Ilario,  and  as  she  gave  her  hand,  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  an  air  of  in- 
quiry. It  would  have  been  like  him 
to  say  that  he  had  come  to  see  her 
husband  and  not  herself,  for  he  had 
no  tact  with  persons  whom  he  did  not 
especially  like.  There  are  such  people 
in  the  world. 

**  Will  you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea, 
Flavia  V*  he  asked,  as  he  sat  down, 
after  shaking  hands  with  Spicca. 

"  Have  you  at  last  heard  that  your 
cousin's  tea  is  good  1 "  inquired  the 
latter,  who  was  surprised  by  Giovanni's 
coming. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  cold,"  said  Flavia 
looking  into  the  teapot,  as  though  she 
could  discover  the  temperature  by 
inspection. 

**It  is  no  matter,"  answered  Gio- 
vanni absently. 

He  was  wondering  how  he  could 
lead  the  conversation  to  the  discussion 
of  Madame  d'Aranjuez. 

"  You  belong  to  the  swallowers," 
observed  Spicca,  lighting  a  fresh 
cigarette.  "  You  swallow  something, 
no  matter  what,  and  you  are  satisfied." 

"It  is  the  simplest  way — one  is 
never  disappointed." 

"  It  is  a  pity  one  cannot  swallow 
people  in  the  same  way,"  said  Flavia 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Most  people  do,"  answered  Spicca, 
viciously. 


836 


Don  Orsino. 


"Were  you  at  the  Jubilee  on  the 
first  day  1 ''  asked  Giovanni  addressing 
Flavia. 

"  Of  course  I  was — and  you  spoke 
to  me." 

"  That  is  true.  By  the  by,  I  saw 
that  excellent  Donna  Tullia  there.  I 
wonder  whose  ticket  she  had." 

"  She  had  the  Princess  Befana's," 
answered  Spicca,  who  knew  everything. 
"  The  old  lady  happened  to  be  dying — 
she  always  dies  at  the  beginning  of  the 
season — it  used  to  be  for  economy 
but  it  has  become  a  habit — and  so 
Del  Ferice  bought  her  card  of  her 
servant  for  his  wife." 

**  Who  was  the  lady  who  sat  with 
her  1  "  asked  Giovanni  delighted  with 
his  own  skill. 

"  You  ought  to  know  ! "  exclaimed 
Flavia.  "  We  all  saw  Orsino  take  her 
out.  That  is  the  famous,  the  incom- 
parable Madame  d'Aranjuez — the  most 
beautiful  of  Spanish  princesses  ac- 
cording to  to-day's  paper.  I  dare  say 
you  have  seen  the  account  of  the  Del 
Ferice  party.  She  is  no  more  Spanish 
than  Alexander  the  Great.  Is  she, 
Spicca  1  " 

"  No,  she  is  not  Spanish,"  answered 
the  latter. 

"  Then  what  in  the  world  is  she  ? " 
asked   Giovanni  impatiently. 

"  How  should  I  know]  Of  course  it 
is  very  disagreeable  for  you."  It  was 
Flavia  who  spoke. 

"  Disagreeable  ?     How  1 " 

"  Why,  about  Orsino  of  course. 
Everybody  says  he  is  devoted  to 
her." 

"  I  wish  everybody  would  mind  his 
and  her  business,"  said  Giovanni 
sharply.  **  Because  a  boy  makes  the 
acquaintance  of  a  stranger  at  a  studio 

"  Oh, — it  was  at  a  studio  ?  I  did 
not  know  that." 

"  Yes,  at  Gouache's — I  fancied  your 
sister  might  have  told  you  that,"  said 
Giovanni,  growing  more  and  more  irrit- 
;ible,  and  yet  not  daring  to  change  the 
subject,  lest  he  should  lose  some  valu- 
able information.  "Because  Orsino 
makes  her  acquaintance  accidentally. 


every  one  must  say  that  he  is  in  love 
with  her." 

Flavia  laughed.  ' 

"  My  dear  Giovanni,"  she  answered. 
**  Let  us  be  frank.  I  used  never  to 
tell  the  truth  under  any  circumstances 
when  I  was  a  girl,  but,  Giovanni — my 
Giovanni — did  not  like  that.  Do  you 
know  what  he  did  1  He  used  to  cut 
oft  a  hundred  francs  of  my  allowance 
for  every  fib  I  told — laughing  at  me 
all  the  time.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
quarter  I  positively  had  not  a  pair  of 
shoes,  and  all  my  gloves  had  been 
cleaned  twice.  He  used  to  keep  all 
the  fines  in  a  special  pocket-book — if 
you  knew  how  hard  I  tried  to  steal  it  1 
But  I  could  not.  Then,  of  course,  I 
reformed.  There  was  nothing  else 
to  be  done — that  or  rags — fancy  ! 
And  do  you  know  I  have  grown 
quite  used  to  being  truthful  1  Besides, 
it  is  so  original,  that  I  pose  with  it." 

Flavia  paused,  laughed  a  little,  and 
puffed  at  her  cigarette. 

"  You  do  not  often  come  to  see  me, 
Giovanni,"  she  said,  "and  since  you 
are  here  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
truth  about  your  visit.  You  are  beside 
yourself  with  rage  at  Orsino's  new 
fancy,  and  you  want  to  find  out  all 
about  this  Madame  d'Aranjuez.  So 
you  came  here  because  we  are  Whites, 
and  you  saw  that  she  had  been  at  the 
Del  Ferice  party,  and  you  know  that 
we  know  them — and  the  rest  is  sung 
by  the  organ,  as  we  say  when  high 
mass  is  over.  Is  that  the  truth  or 
not  1 " 

"  Approximately,"  said  Giovanni, 
smiling  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Does  Corona  cut  your  allowance 
when  you  tell  fibs?"  asked  Flavia. 
"Nol  Then  why  say  that  it  is  only 
approximately  true  1  " 

"  I  have  my  reasons.  And  you  can 
tell  me  nothing  1 " 

"  Nothing.  I  believe  Spicca  knows 
all  about  her.  But  he  will  not  tell 
what  he  knows." 

Spicca  made  no  answer  to  this,  and 
Giovanni  determined  to  outstay  him, 
or  rather,  until  he  rose  to  go  and  then 
go  with  him.     It  was  tedious  work  for 


Don  Orsino, 


337 


he  was  not  a  man  who  could  talk 
against  time  on  all  occasions.  But  he 
struggled  bravely  and  Spicoa  at  last 
got  up  from  his  deep  chair.  They 
went  out  together,  and  stopped  as 
though  by  common  consent  upon  the 
brilliantly  lighted  landing  of  the  first 
floor. 

"Seriously,  Spicca,"  said  Giovanni, 
"  I  am  afraid  Orsino  is  falling  in  love 
with  this  pretty  stranger.  If  you  can 
tell  me  anything  about  her,  please  do 
so.^' 

Spicca  stared  at  the  wall,  hesitated 
a  moment,  and  then  looked  straight 
into  his  companion's  eyes. 

"  Have  you  any  reason  to  suppose 
that  I,  and  I  especially,  know  anything 
about  this  lady  1"  he  asked. 

"  No — except  that  you  know  every- 
thing." 

"That  is  a  fable."  Spicca  turned 
from  him  and  began  to  descend  the 
stairs. 

Giovanni  followed  and  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  You  will  not  do  me  this  service  1 " 
he  asked  earnestly. 

Again  Spicca  stopped  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  You  and  I  are  very  old  friends, 
Giovanni,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  am 
older  than  you,  but  we  have  stood  by 
each  other  very  often — in  places  more 
slippery  than  these  marble  steps.  Do 
not  let  us  quarrel  now,  old  friend. 
When  I  tell  you  that  my  omniscience 
exists  only  in  the  vivid  imaginations  of 
people  whose  tea  I  like,  believe  me ; 
and  if  you  wish  to  do  me  a  kindness 
— for  the  sake  of  old  times — do  not 
help  to  spread  the  idea  that  I  know 
everything." 

The  melancholy  Spicca  had  never 
been  given  to  talking  about  friendship 
or  its  mutual  obligations.  Indeed, 
Giovanni  could  not  remember  having 
ever  heard  him  speak  as  he  had  just 
spoken.  It  was  perfectly  clear  that 
he  knew  something  very  definite  about 
Maria  Consuelo,  and  he  probably  had 
no  intention  of  deceiving  Giovanni  in 
that  respect.  But  Spicca  also  knew 
his  man,  and  he  knew  that  his  appeal 

No.  389. — VOL.  Lxv. 


for  Giovanni's  silence  would  not  be 
vain. 

"  Very  well,"  BB^d  Sant'  Ilario. 

They  exchanged  a  few  indilEerent 
words  before  parting,  and  then  Gio- 
vanni walked  slowly  homeward,  pon- 
dering on  the  things  he  had  heard  that 
day. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

While  Giovanni  was  exerting 
himself  to  little  purpose  in  attempting 
to  gain  information  concerning  Maria 
Consuelo,  she  had  launched  herself 
upon  the  society  of  which  the  Countess 
Del  Ferice  was  an  important  and 
influential  member.  Chance,  and 
probably  chance  alone,  had  gviided  her 
in  the  matter  of  this  acquaintance,  for 
it  could  certainly  not  be  said  that  she 
had  forced  herself  upon  Donna  Tullia, 
nor  even  shown  any  uncommon 
readiness  to  meet  the  latter' s  advances. 
The  offer  of  a  seat  in  her  carriage 
had  seemed  natural  enough,  in  the 
circumstances,  and  Donna  Tullia  had 
been  perfectly  free  to  refuse  it  if  she 
had  chosen  to  do  so. 

Though  possessing  but  the  very 
slightest  grounds  for  believing  herself 
to  be  a  born  diplomatist,  the  Countess 
had  always  delighted  in  petty  plotting 
and  scheming.  She  now  saw  a 
possibility  of  annoying  all  Orsino' s 
relations  by  attracting  the  object  of 
Orsino' s  devotion  to  her  own  house. 
She  had  no  especial  reason  for 
supposing  that  the  young  man  was 
really  very  much  in  love  with  Madame 
d'Aranjuez,  but  her  woman's  instinct, 
which  far  surpassed  her  diplomatic 
talents  in  acuteness,  told  her  that 
Orsino  was  certainly  not  indifferent  to 
the  interesting  stranger.  She  argued, 
primitively  enough,  that  to  annoy 
Orsino  must  be  equivalent  to  annoying 
his  people  ;  and  she  supposed  that  she 
could  do  nothing  more  disagreeable  to 
the  young  man's  wishes  than  to  induce 
Madame  d'Aranjuez  to  join  that  part 
of  society  from  which  all  the  Sara- 
cinesca  were  separated  by  an  in- 
superable  barrier. 


83S 


Don  Orsino. 


And  Orsino-  indeed  resented  the 
proceeding,  as  she  had  expected  ;  but 
his  family  were  at  first  more  inclined 
to  look  upon  Donna  Tullia  as  a  good 
angel  who  had  carried  off  the  tempter 
at  the  right  moment  to  an  unapproach- 
able distance.  It  was  not  to  be 
believed  that  Orsino  could  do  anything 
so  monstrous  as  to  enter  Del  Fence's 
house  or  ask  a  place  in  Del  Fence's 
circle,  and  it  was  accordingly  a  relief 
to  find  that  Madame  d'Aranjuez  had 
definitely  chosen  to  do  so,  and  had 
appeared  in  olive-green  brocade  at  the 
Del  Fence's  last  party.  The  olive- 
green  brocade  would  now  assuredly 
not  figure  in  the  gatherings  of  the 
Saracinesca's  intimate  friends. 

Like  every  one  else,  Orsino  read  the 
daily  chronicle  of  Roman  life  in  the 
papers,  and  until  he  saw  Maria  Con- 
suelo's  name  among  the  Del  Fence's 
guests,  he  refused  to  believe  that  she 
had  taken  the  irrevocable  step  he  so 
much  feared.     He  had  still  entertained 
vague   notions    of    bringing   about   a 
meeting  between  her  and  his  mother, 
and   he  saw  at  a  glance  that  such  a 
meeting  was   now    quite   out   of  the 
question.     This   was   the   first  severe 
shock  his  vanity  had  ever  received,  and 
he  was  surprised  at  the  depth  of  his 
own  annoyance.    Maria  Consuelo  might 
indeed    have    been    seen    once   with 
Donna  Tullia,  and  might   have   gone 
once  to  the   latter' s  day.     That   was 
bad   enough,   but   might  be  remedied 
by  fcact  and  decision  in  her  subsequent 
conduct.     But  there  was  no  salvation 
possible    after    a    person    had    been 
advertised    in    the    daily    paper     as 
Madame  d' Aranjuez  had  been.     Orsino 
was  very  angry.     He  had  been  once 
to  see  her  since  his    first   visit,    and 
she     had    said    nothing    about    this 
invitation,    though     Donna     Tullia's 
name  had  been  mentioned.     He  was 
offended  with  her  for  not  telling  him 
that  she  was  going  to  the  dinner,  as 
though  he  had  any  right  to  be  made 
acquainted  with  her   intentions.     He 
had   no    sooner    made   the   discovery 
than  he  determined  to  visit  his  anger 
upon   her,   and   throwing    the    paper 


aside  went  straight  to  the  hotel  where 
she  was  stopping. 

Maria  Consuelo  was  at  home  and  he 
was  ushered  into  the  little  sitting-room 
without  delay.  To  his  inexpressible 
disgust  he  found  Del  Ferice  himself 
installed  upon  the  chair  near  the 
table  engaged  in  animated  con- 
versation with  Madame  d' Aranjuez. 
The  situation  was  awkward  in  the 
extreme.  Orsino  hoped  that  Del 
Ferice  would  go  at  once,  and  thus 
avoid  the  necessity  of  an  introduction. 
But  XJgo  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
rose,  indeed,  but  did  not  take  his  hat 
from  the  table,  and  stood  smiling 
pleasantly  while  Orsino  shook  hands 
with  Maria  Consuelo. 

"  Let  me  make  you  acquainted,*' 
she  said  with  exasperating  calmness, 
and  she  named  the  two  men  to  each 
other. 

Ugo  put  out  his  hand  quietly  and 
Orsino  was  obliged  to  take  it,  which 
he  did  coldly  enough.  Ugo  had  more 
than  his  share  of  tact,  and  he  never 
made  a  disagreeable  impression  upon 
any  one  if  he  could  help  it.  Maria 
Consuelo  seemed  to  take  everything 
for  granted,  and  Orsino's  appearance 
did  not  disconcert  her  in  the  slightest 
degree.  Both  men  sat  down,  and 
looked  at  her  as  though  expecting 
that  she  would  choose  a  subject  of 
conversation  for  them. 

"  We  were  talking  of  the  change  in 
Rome,"  she  said.  "  Monsieur  Del 
Ferice  takes  a  great  interest  in  all  that 
is  doing,  and  he  was  explaining  to  me 
some  of  the  difficulties  with  which  he 
has  to  contend." 

"  Don  Orsino  knows  what  they  are,, 
as  well  as  I,  though  we  might  perhaps 
differ  as  to  the  way  of  dealing  with 
them,"  said  Del  Ferice. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Orsino,  more 
coldly  than  was  necessary.  "  You 
play  the  active  part,  and  we  the 
passive." 

"  In  a  certain  sense,  yes,"  returned 
the  other,  quite  unruffled.  "You 
have  exactly  defined  the  situation^ 
and  ours  is  by  far  the  more  dis- 
agreeable and  thankless  part  to  play. 


Don  Orsino. 


339 


Oh — I  am  not  going  to  defend  all  we 
have  done  !  I  only  defend  what  we 
mean  to  do.  Change  of  any  sort  is 
execrable  to  the  man  of  taste,  unless 
it  is  brought  about  by  time — and  that 
is  a  beautifier  which  we  have  not  at 
our  disposal.  We  are  half  Vandals 
and  half  Americans  ;  and  we  are  in  a 
terrible  hurry." 

Maria  Consuelo  laughed,  and 
Orsino' s  face  became  a  shade  less 
gloomy.  He  had  expected  to  find  Del 
Ferice  the  arrogant,  self-satisfied 
apostle  of  the  modern  which  he  was 
represented  to  be. 

**  Could  you  not  have  taken  a  little 
more  time?  "  asked  Orsino. 

*^I  cannot  see  how.  Besides  it  is 
our  time  which  takes  us  with  it.  So 
long  as  Rome  was  the  capital  of  an 
idea  there  was  no  need  of  haste  in 
doing  anything.  But  when  it  became 
the  capital  of  a  modern  kingdom,  it 
fell  a  victim  to  modern  facts — which 
are  not  beautiful.  The  most  we  can 
hope  to  do  is  to  direct  the  current, 
clumsily  enough,  I  dare  say.  We 
cannot  stop  it.  Nothing  short  of 
Oriental  despotism  could.  We  cannot 
prevent  people  from  flocking  to  the 
(centre,  and  where  there  is  a  population 
it  must  be  housed." 

"  Evidently,"  said  Madame  d*Aran- 
juez. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that,  without 
disturbing  the  old  city,  a  new  one 
might  have  been  built  beside  it," 
observed  Orsino. 

"  No  doubt.  And  that  is  practically 
what  we  have  done.  I  say  *  we,' 
because  you  say  *you.'  But  I 
think  you  will  admit  that,  so  far  as 
personal  activity  is  concerned,  the 
Romans  of  Rome  are  taking  as  active 
a  share  in  building  ugly  houses  as  any 
of  the  Italian  Romans.  The  destruc- 
tion of  the  Villa  Ludovisi,  for  instance, 
was  forced  upon  the  owner  not  by  the 
national  government  but  by  an  insane 
municipality,  and  those  who  have 
taken  over  the  building-lots  are  largely 
Roman  princes  of  the  old  stock." 

The  argument  was  unanswerable, 
and  Orsino  knew  it,  a  fact  which  did 


not  improve  his  temper.  It  was  dis- 
agreeable enough  to  be  forced  into  a 
conversation  with  Del  Ferice,  and  it 
was  still  worse  to  be  obliged  to  agree 
with  him.  Orsino  frowned  and  said 
nothing,  hoping  that  the  subject  would 
drop.  But  Del  Ferice  had  only  pro- 
duced an  unpleasant  impression  in 
order  to  remove  it  and  thereby 
improve  the  whole  situation,  which 
was  one  of  the  most  difficult  in  which 
he  had  found  himself  for  some  time. 

"  I  repeat,"  he  said,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  *^  that  it  is  hopeless  to  defend  all 
of  what  is  actually  done  in  our  day  in 
Rome.  Some  of  your  friends  and  many 
of  mine  are  building  houses  which 
even  age  and  ruin  will  never  beautify. 
The  only  defensible  part  of  the  affair 
is  the  political  change  which  has 
brought  about  the  necessity  of  build- 
ing at  all,  and  upon  that  point  I  think 
that  we  may  agree  to  differ.  Do  you 
not  think  so,  Don  Orsino  1 " 

"By  all  means,"  answered  the 
young  man,  conscious  that  the 
proposal  was  both  just  and  fitting. 

"And  for  the  rest,  both  your 
friends  and  mine — for  all  I  know, 
your  own  family  and  certainly  I 
myself — have  enormous  interests  at 
stake.  We  may  at  least  agree  to 
hope  that  none  of  us  may  be  ruined." 

"  Certainly — though  we  have  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
Neither  my  father  nor  my  grand- 
father has  entered  into  any  such 
speculation." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Del  Ferica 
thoughtfully. 

"  Why  a  pity  ?  " 

"On  the  one  hand  my  instincts 
are  basely  commercial,"  Del  Ferice 
answered  with  a  frank  laugh.  "  No 
matter  how  great  a  fortune  may  be,  it 
may  be  doubled  and  trebled.  You 
must  remember  that  I  am  a  banker  in 
fact  if  not  exactly  in  designation,  and 
the  opportunity  is  excellent.  But  the 
greater  pity  is  that  such  men  as  you, 
Don  Orsino,  who  could  exercise  as 
much  influence  as  it  might  please  you 
to  use,  leave  it  to  men — very  unlike 
you,  I  fancy — to  murder  the  architec- 

z  2 


340 


Doii  Orsino, 


ture  of  Rome  and  prepare  the  triumph 
of  the  hideous." 

Orsino  did  not  answer  the  remark, 
although  he  was  not  altogether  dis- 
pleased with  the  idea  it  conveyed. 
Maria  Consuelo  looked  at  him. 

**  Why  do  you  stand  aloof  and  let 
things  go  from  bad  to  worse  when  you 
might  really  do  good  by  joining  in  the 
affairs  of  the  day  % "  she  asked. 

"I  could  not  join  in  them,  if  I 
would,"  answered  Orsino. 

"  Why  not  1 " 

**  Because  I  have  not  command  of  a 
hundred  francs  in  the  world,  madame. 
That  is  the  simplest  and  best  of  all 
reasons." 

Del  Ferice  laughed  incredulously. 

"  The  eldest  son  of  Casa  Saracinesca 
would  not  find  tjiat  a  practical  obsta- 
cle,'' he  said  taking  his  hat  and  rising 
to  go.  "  Besides,  what  is  needed  in 
these  transactions  is  not  so  much 
ready  money  as  courage,  decision,  and 
judgment.  There  is  a  rich  firm  of 
contractors  now  doing  a  large  business, 
who  began  with  three  thousand 
francs  as  their  whole  capital — what 
you  might  lose  at  cards  in  an  evening 
without  missing  it,  though  you  say 
that  you  have  no  money  at  your 
command." 

"  Is  that  possible  ? "  asked  Orsino 
with  some  interest. 

"  It  is  a  fact.  There  were  three 
men,  a  tobacconist,  a  carpenter,  and  a 
mason,  and  they  each  had  a  thousand 
francs  of  savings.  They  took  over  a 
contract  last  week  for  a  million  and  a 
half,  on  which  they  will  clear  twenty 
per  cent.  But  they  had  the  qualities 
— the  daring  and  the  prudence  com- 
bined.    They  succeeded." 

"And  if  they  had  failed,  what 
would  have  happened  ? " 

"They  would  have  lost  their  three 
thousand  francs.  They  had  nothing 
else  to  lose,  and  there  was  nothing  in 
the  least  irregular  about  their  trans- 
actions. Good  evening,  madame — I 
have  a  private  meeting  of  directors 
at  my  house.  Good  evening,  Don 
Orsino." 

He  went  out,  leaving  behind  him  an 


impression  which  was  not  by  any 
means  disagreeable.  His  appearance 
was  against  him,  Orsino  thought.  His 
fat  white  face  and  dull  eyes  were  not 
pleasant  to  look  at.  But  he  had 
shown  tact  in  a  difficult  situation,  and 
there  was  a  quiet  energy  about  him, 
a  settled  purpose  which  could  not  fail 
to  please  a  young  man  who  hated  his 
own  idleness. 

Orbino  found  that  his  mood  had 
changed.  He  was  less  angry  than  he  had 
meant  to  be,  and  he  saw  extenuating 
circumstances  where  he  had  at  first 
only  seen  a  wilful  mistake.  He  sat 
down  again. 

"  Confess  that  he  is  not  the  impossi- 
ble creature  you  supposed,"  said  Maria 
Consuelo  with  a  laugh. 

"  No,  he  is  not.  I  had  imagined 
something  very  different.  Neverthe- 
less, I  wish — one  never  has  the  least 

right  to  wish  what  one  wishes " 

He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
sentence. 

"  That  I  had  not  gone  to  his  wife's 
party,  you  would  say  ?  But,  my  dear 
Don  Orsino,  why  should  I  refuse 
pleasant  things  when  they  come  into 
my  life  ?  " 

"  Was  it  so  pleasant  % " 

•*  Of  course  it  was.  A  beautiful 
dinner, — half-a-dozen  clever  men,  all  in- 
terested in  the  affairs  of  the  day,  and  all 
anxious  to  explain  them  to  me  because 
I  was  a  stranger.  A  hundred  people 
or  so  in  the  evening,  who  all  seemed 
to  enjoy  themselves  as  much  as  I  did. 
Why  should  I  refuse  all  that? 
Because  my  first  acquaintance  in  Bome 
— who  was  Gouache — is  so  'indiff- 
erent,' and  because  you — my  second 
— are  a  pronounced  clerical  1  That  is 
not  reasonable." 

"I  do  not  pretend  to  be  reason- 
able," said  Orsino.  "To  be  reason- 
able is  the  boast  of  people  who  feel 
nothing." 

"  Then  you  are  a  man  of  heart  %  " 
Maria  Consuelo  seemed  amused. 

"I  make  no  pretence  to  being  a 
man  of  head,  madame." 

"  You  are  not  easily  caught." 

"  Nor  Del  Ferice  either." 


Don  Orsino, 


341 


''  Why  do  you  talk  of  him  1 " 

"  The  opportunity  is  good,  madame. 
As  he  has  just  gone,  we  know  that  he 
is  not  coming/' 

"  You  can  be  very  sarcastic,  when 
you  like,"  said  Maria  Consuelo.  "  But 
I  do  not  believe  that  you  are  so  bitter 
as  you  make  yourself  out  to  be.  I  do 
not  even  believe  that  you  found  Del 
Ferice  so  very  disagreeable  as  you 
pretend.  You  were  certainly  interested 
in  what  he  said." 

"Interest  is  not  always  agreeable. 
The  guillotine,  for  instance,  possesses 
the  most  lively  interest  for  the  con- 
demned man,  at  an  execution." 

"Your  illustrations  are  startling. 
I  once  saw  an  execution,  quite  by 
accident,  and  I  would  rather  not  think 
of  it.  But  you  can  hardly  compare 
Del  Ferice  to  the  guillotine." 

"  He  is  as  noiseless,  as  keen,  and  as 
sure,"  said  Orsino  smartly. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too 
clever,"  answered  Maria  Consuelo 
without  a  smile. 

"  Is  Del  Ferice  a  case  of  that  ?  " 

"  No.  You  are.  You  say  cutting 
things  merely  because  they  come  into 
your  head,  though  I  am  sure  that  you 
do  not  always  mean  them.  It  is  a  bad 
habit." 

"  Because  it  makes  enemies,  ma- 
dame ? "  Orsino  was  annoyed  by  the 
rebuke. 

"That  is  the  least  good  of  good 
reasons." 

"  Another  then  1  " 

"  It  will  prevent  people  from  loving 
you,"  said  Maria  Consuelo  gravely. 

"  I  never  heard  that " 

"  No  1     It  is  true,  nevertheless." 

"In  that  case  I  will  reform  at 
once."  said  Orsino,  trying  to  meet  her 
eyes.  But  she  looked  away  from 
him. 

"  You  think  that  I  am  preaching  to 
you,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  not  the 
right  to  do  that,  and  if  I  had,  I  would 
certainly  not  use  it.  But  I  have  seen 
something  of  the  world.  Women 
rarely  love  a  man  who  is  bitter  against 
any  one  but  himself.  If  he  says  cruel 
things   of    other  women,  the  one    to 


whom  he  says  them  believes  that  he 
will  say  much  worse  of  her  to  the 
next  he  meets ;  if  he  abuses  the  men 
she  knows,  she  likes  it  even  less — it  is 
an  attack  on  her  judgment,  on  her 
taste,  and  perhaps  upon  a  half -developed 
sympathy  for  the  man  attacked.  One 
should  never  be  witty  at  another  per- 
son's expense  except  with  one's  own 
sex."     She  laughed  a  little. 

"  What  a  terrible  conclusion  !  " 

"  Is  it  ?     It  is  the  true  one." 

"  Then  the  way  to  win  a  woman's 
love  is  to  praise  her.  acquaintances? 
That  is  original." 

"  I  never  said  that." 

"  No  1  I  misunderstood.  What  is 
the  best  way  1 " 

"  Oh — it  is  very  simple,"  laughed 
Maria  Consuelo.  "  Tell  her  you  love 
her,  and  tell  her  so  again  and  again — 
you  will  certainly  please  her  in  the 
end." 

"  Madame "  Orsino  stopped,  and 

folded  his  hands  with  an  air  of  devout 
supplication. 

"  What  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing  I  I  was  about  to 
begin.  It  seemed  so  simple,  as  you 
say." 

They  both  laughed  and  their  eye&   ^ 
met  for  a  moment. 

"  Del  Ferice  interests  me  very  much,'' 
said  Maria  Consuelo,  abruptly  return- 
ing to  the  original  subject  of  conversa- 
tion. "  He  is  one  of  those  men  who 
will  be  held  responsible  for  much  that 
is  now  doing.  Is  it  not  true  ?  He 
has  great  influeDce." 

"  I  have  always  heard  so."  Orsine 
was  not  pleased  at  being  driven  to  talk 
of  Del  Ferice  again. 

"  Do  you  think  what  he  said  about 
you  so  altogether  absurd  ? " 

"  Absurd,  no — impracticable,  per- 
haps. You  mean  his  suggestion  that 
I  should  try  a  little  speculation? 
Frankly,  I  had  no  idea  that  such 
things  could  be  begun  with  so  little 
capital.  It  seems  incredible.  I  fancy 
that  Del  Ferice  was  exaggerating. 
You  know  how  carelessly  bankers 
talk  of  a  few  thousands,  more  or  less. 
Nothing  short  of  a  million  has  much 


342 


Don  Orsino, 


meaning  for  them.  Three  thousand  or 
thirty  thousand— it  is  much  the  same 
in  their  estimation." 

"  I  dare  say.  A.f  ter  all,  why  should 
you  risk  anything?  I  suppose  it  is 
simpler  to  play  cards,  though  I  should 
think  it  less  amusing.  I  was  only 
thinking  how  easy  it  would  be  for  you 
to  find  a  serious  occupation  if  you 
chose." 

Orsino  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  seemed  to  be  thinking  over  the 
matter. 

"Would  you  advise  me  to  enter 
upon  such  a  business  without  my 
father's  knowledge  1"  he  asked 
presently. 

"  How  can  I  advise  you  1  Besides, 
your  father  would  let  you  do  as  you 
please.  There  is  nothing  dishonour- 
able  in  such  things.  The  prejudice 
against  business  is  old-fashioned,  and 
if  you  do  not  break  through  it  yoiu* 
children  will." 

'Orsino  looked  thoughtfully  at  Maria 
Consuelo.  She  sometimes  found  an 
oddly  masculine  bluntness  with  which 
to  express  her  meaning,  and  which 
produced  a  singular  impression  on  the 
young  man.  It  made  him  feel  what 
he  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of  weakness, 
of  which  he  ought  to  be  ashamed. 

"There  is  nothing  dishonourable 
in  the  theory,"  he  answered,  "  and 
the  practice  depends  on  the  individual." 

Maria  Consuelo  laughed. 

"  You  see — you  can  be  a  moralist 
when  you  please,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  wonderful  attraction  in 
her  yellow  eyes  just  at  that  moment. 

"  To  please  you,  madame,  I  could 
do  something  much  worse — or  much 
better." 

He  was  not  quite  in  earnest,  but 
he  was  not  jesting,  and  his  face  was 
more  serious  than  his  voice.  Maria 
Consuelo's  hand  was  lying  on  the 
table  beside  the  silver  paper-cutter. 
The  white,  pointed  fingers  were  very 
tempting  and  he  would  willingly  have 
touched  them.  He  put  out  his  hand. 
If  she  did  not  draw  hers  away  he 
would  lay  his  own  upon  it.  If  she 
did,  he    would    take    up    the    paper- 


cutter.  As  it  turned  out,  he  had  to 
content  himself  with  the  latter.  She 
did  not  draw  her  hand  away  as  though 
she  understood  what  he  was  going  to 
do,  but  quietly  raised  it  and  turned 
the  shade  of  the  lamp  a  few  inches. 

"  I  would  rather  not  be  responsible 
for  your  choice,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  And  yet  you  have  left  me  none," 
he  answered  with  sudden  boldness. 

"No?     How  sol" 

He  held  up  the  silver  knife  and 
smiled. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said, 
affecting  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  your  permission 
to  take  your  hand." 

"Indeed?  Whyl  There  it  is." 
She  held  it  out  frankly. 

He  took  the  beautiful  fingers  in  his 
and  looked  at  them  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  quietly  raised  them  to  his  lips. 

"That  was  not  included  in  the 
permission,"  she  said  with  a  little 
laugh  and  drawing  back.  "  Now  you 
ought  to  go  away  at  once." 

"  Why  1 " 

'*  Because  that  little  ceremony  can 
belong  only  to  the  beginning  or  the 
end  of  a  visit." 

"  I  have  only  just  come." 

"Ah?  How  long  the  time  has 
seemed  !  I  fancied  you  had  been  here 
half  an  hour." 

"  To  me  it  has  seemed  but  a  minute," 
answered  Orsino  promptly. 

"  And  you  will  not  go  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  of  the  nature  of 
a  peremptory  dismissal  in  the  look 
which  accompanied  the  words. 

"No — at  the  most,  I  will  practise 
leave-taking." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Maria  Con- 
suelo with  sudden  coldness.  "You 
are  a  little  too — what  shall  I  say? — 
too  enterprising,  prince.  You  had 
better  make  use  of  the  gift  where  it  will 
be  a  recommendation — in  business,  for 
instance." 

"  You  are  very  severe,  madame/' 
answered  Orsino,  deeming  it  wiserlto 
affect  humility,  though  a  dozen  sharp 
answers  suggested  themselves  to^his 
ready  wit. 


Don  Orsino. 


343 


Maria  Consuelo  was  silent  for  a  few 
seconds.  Her  head  was  resting  upon 
the  little  red  morocco  cushion,  which 
heightened  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
her  skin  and  lent  a  deeper  colour  to 
her  auburn  hair.  She  was  gazing  at 
the  hangings  above  the  door.  Orsinr^ 
watched  her  in  quiet  admiration.  She 
was  beautiful  as  he  saw  her  there  at 
that  moment,  for  the  irregularities  of 
her  features  were  forgotten  in  the 
brilliancy  of  her  colouring  and  in  the 
grace  of  the  attitude.  Her  face  was 
serious  at  first.  Gradually  a  smile 
stole  over  it,  beginning,  as  it  seemed, 
from  the  deeply  set  eyes  and  con- 
centrating itself  at  last  in  the  full  red 
mouth.  Then  she  spoke,  still  looking 
upwards  and  away  from  him. 

"  What  would  you  think  if  I  were 
not  a  little  severe?"  she  asked.  **I 
am  a  woman  living — travelling,  I 
should  say — quite  alone,  a  stranger 
here,  and  little  less  than  a  stranger  to 
you.  What  would  you  think  if  I  were 
not  a  little  severe,  I  say  ?  What  con- 
clusion would  you  come  to,  if  I  let  you 
take  my  hand  as  often  as  you  pleased, 
and  say  whatever  suggested  itself  to 
your  imagination — your  very  active 
imagination  ? " 

"  I  should  think  you  the  most  ador- 
able of  women " 

"  But  it  is  not  my  ambition  to  be 
thought  the  most  adorable  of  women 
by  you.  Prince  Orsino." 

**  No — of  course  not.  People  never 
care  for  what  they  get  without  an 
effort." 

*'  You  are  absolutely  irrepressible  ! " 
exclaimed  Maria  Consuelo,  laughing  in 
spite  of  herself. 

"  And  you  do  not  like  that !  I  will 
be  meekness  itself — a  lamb,  if  you 
please." 

*^  Too  playful — it  would  not  suit 
your  style." 

"  A  stone " 

**  I  detest  geology." 

"  A  lap-dog,  then,  make  your 
choice,  madame.  The  menagerie  of 
the  universe  is  at  your  disposal.  When 
Adam  gave  names  to  the  animals,  he 
could     have    called     a    lion    a    lap- 


dqg — to  reassure  the  Africans.  But 
he  lacked  imagination — he  called  a  oat, 
a  cat." 

"  That  had  the  merit  of  simplicity, 
at  alj>>-'ents." 

•flince  you  admire  his  system,  yoij 
may  call  me  either  Cain  or  Abel," 
suggested  Orsino.  **Am  I  humble 
enough  1   Can  submission  go  farther  1  " 

"  Either  would  be  flattery — for  Abel 
was  good  and  Cain  was  interesting." 

**And  I  am  neither — you  give  me 
another  opportunity  of  exhibiting  my 
deep  humility.  I  thank  you  sincerely. 
You  are  becoming  more  gracious  than 
T  had  hoped." 

"  You  are  very  like  a  woman,  Don 
Orsino.  You  always  try  to  have  the 
last  word." 

"  I  always  hope  that  the  last  word 
may  be  the  best.  But  I  accept  the 
criticism,  or  the  reproach,  with  my 
usual  gratitude.  I  only  beg  you  to 
observe  that  to  let  you  have  the  last 
word  would  be  for  me  to  end  the 
conversation,  after  which  I  should  be 
obliged  to  go  away.  And  I  do  not 
wish  to  go,  as  I  have  already  said." 

"You  suggest  the  means  of  making 
you  go,"  answered  Maria  Consuelo, 
with  a  smile.  **  I  can  be  silent — if 
you  will  not." 

"  It  will  be  useless.  If  you  do 
not  interrupt  me,  I  shall  become 
eloquent " 

**  How  terrible  !     Pray  do  not ! " 

"  You  see !  I  have  you  in  my 
power.     You  cannot  get  rid  of  me." 

"  I  would  appeal  to  your  generosity, 
then." 

"  That  is  another  matter,  madame," 
said  Orsino,  taking  his  hat. 

"  I   only  said   that   I   would " 

Maria  Consuelo  made  a  gesture  to  stop 
him. 

But  he  was  wise  enough  to  see 
that  the  conversation  had  reached  its 
natural  end,  and  his  instinct  told 
him  that  he  should  not  outstay  his 
welcome.  He  pretended  not  to  see 
the  motion  of  her  hand,  and  rose  to 
take  his  leave. 

"You  do  not  know  me,"  he  said. 
"To    point    out    to    me    a    possible 


344 


Don  Orsino, 


generous  action,  is  to  ensure  iuj 
performing  it  without  hesitation. 
When  may  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  see 
you  again-,  madame? '' 

**  You  need  not  be  so  intensely 
ceremonious.  You  know  that  I  am 
always  at  home  at  this  hour." 

Orsino  was  very  much  struck  by 
this  answer.  There  was  a  shade  of 
irritation  in  the  tone,  which  he  had 
certainly  not  expected,  and  which 
flattered  him  exceedingly.  She  turned 
her  face  away  as  she  gave  him  her 
hand  and  moved  a  book  on  the  table 
with  the  other  as  though  she  meant  to 
begin  reading  almost  before  he  should 
be  out  of  the  room.  He  had  not  felt 
by  any  means  sure  that  she  really 
liked  his  society,  and  he  had  not 
expected  that  she  would  so  far  forget 
herself  as  to  show  her  inclination  by 
her  impatience.  He  had  judged, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  that  she  was  a 
woman  who  weighed  every  word  and 
gesture  beforehand,  and  who  would  be 
incapable  of  such  an  oversight  as  an 
unpremeditated  manifestation  of 
feeling. 

Very  young  men  are  nowadays  apt 
to  imagine  complications  of  character 
where  they  do  not  exist,  often  over- 
looking them  altogether  where  they 
play  a  real  part.  The  passion  for 
analysis  discovers  what  it  takes  for 
new  simple  elements  in  humanity's 
motives,  and  often  ends  by  feeding  on 
itself  in  the  effort  to  decompose  what 
is  not  composite.  The  greatest  ana- 
lysers are  perhaps  the  young  and 
the  old,  who  being  respectively  before 
and  behind  the  times,  are  not  so  inti- 
mate with  them  as  those  who  are 
actually  making  history,  political  or 
social,  ethical  or  scandalous,  dramatic 
or  comic. 

It  is  very  much  the  custom  among 
those  who  write  fiction  in  the  English 
language  to  efface  their  own  individu- 
ality behind  the  majestic  but  rather 
meaningless  plural  "  we,"  or  to  let 
the  characters  created  express  the 
author's  view  of  mankind.  The  great 
French  novelists  are  more  frank,  for 
they  say  boldly   "I,"  and   have   the 


courage  of  their  opinions.  Their 
merit  is  the  greater,  since  those 
opinions  seem  to  be  rarely  complimen- 
tary to  the  human  race  in  general,  or 
to  their  readers  in  particular.  With- 
out introducing  any  comparison  be- 
tween the  fiction  of  the  two  lan- 
guages, it  may  be  said  that  the 
tendency  of  the  method  is  identical  in 
both  cases  and  is  the  consequence  of 
an  extreme  preference  for  analysis,  to 
the  detriment  of  the  romantic  and  very 
often  of  the  dramatic  element  in 
the  modern  novel.  The  resiilt  may 
or  may  not  be  a  volume  of  modern 
social  history  for  the  instruction  of  the 
present  and  the  future  generation. 
If  it  is  not,  it  loses  one  of  the  chief 
merits  which  it  claims  ;  if  it  is,  then 
we  must  admit  the  rather  strange 
deduction,  that  the  political  history  of 
our  times  has  absorbed  into  itself  all 
the  romance  and  the  tragedy  at  the 
disposal  of  destiny,  leaving  next  to 
none  at  all  in  the  private  lives  of  the 
actors  and  their  numerous  relations. 

Whatever  the  truth  may  be,  it  i& 
certain  that  this  love  of  minute 
dissection  is  exercising  an  enormous 
influence  in  our  time ;  and  as  no  one 
will  pretend  that  a  majority  of  the 
young  persons  in  society  who  analyse 
the  motives  of  their  contemporaries 
and  elders  are  successful  moral  anato- 
mists we  are  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  are  frequently  indebted  to 
their  imaginations  for  the  results  they 
obtain  and  not  seldom  for  the  material 
upon  which  they  work.  A  real  Chem- 
istry may  some  day  grow  out  of  the 
failures  of  this  fanciful  Alchemy,  but 
the  present  generation  will  hardly  live 
to  discover  the  philosopher's  stone,, 
though  the  search  for  it  yield  gold,, 
indirectly,  by  the  writing  of  many 
novels.  If  fiction  is  to  be  counted 
among  the  arts  at  all,  it  is  not  yet 
time  to  forget  the  saying  of  a  very 
great  man  :  "  It  is  the  mission  of  all 
art  to  create  and  foster  agreeable^ 
illusions." 

Orsino  Saracinesca  was  no  further 
removed  from  the  action  of  the  analy- 
tical bacillus  than  other  men  of   his 


Don  Orsino. 


345 


age.  He  believed  and  desired  his  own 
character  to  be  more  complicated  than 
it  was,  and  he  had  no  sooner  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Maria  Consuelo  than 
he  began  to  attribute  to  her  minutest 
actions  such  a  tortuous  web  of  motives 
as  would  have  annihilated  all  action  if 
it  had  really  existed  in  her  brain. 
The  possible  simplicity- of  a  strong  and 
much  tried  character,  good  or  bad, 
altogether  escaped  him,  and  even  an 
occasional  unrestrained  word  or  gesture 
failed  to  convince  him  that  he  was  on 
the  wrong  track.  To  tell  the  truth, 
he  was  as  yet  very  inexperienced. 
His  visits  to  Maria  Consuelo  passed 
in  making  light  conversation.  He 
tried  to  amuse  her,  and  succeeded 
fairly  well,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
indulged  in  endless  and  fruitless  specu- 
lations as  to  her  former  life,  her 
present  intentions  and  her  sentiments 
with  regard  to  himself.  He  would  have 
liked  to  lead  her  into  talking  of  her- 
self, but  he  did  not  know  where  to 
begin.  It  was  not  a  part  of  his  system 
to  believe  in  mysteries  concerning 
people,  but  whe.:  he  reflected  upon  the 
matter  he  was  amazed  at  the  impene- 
trability of  the  barrier  which  cut  him 
off  from  all  knowledge  of  her  life. 
He  soon  heard  the  tales  about  her 
which  were  carelessly  circulated  at  the 
club,  and  he  listened  to  them  without 
much  interest,  though  he  took  the 
trouble  to  deny  their  truth  on  his  own 
responsibility,  which  surprised  the  men 
who  knew  him,  and  gave  rise  to  the 
story  that  he  was  in  love  with  Madame 
d'Aranjuez.  The  most  annoying  con- 
sequence of  the  rumour  was  that  every 


woman  to  whom  he  spoke  in  society 
overwhelmed  him  with  questions  which 
he  could  not  answer  except  in  the 
vaguest  terms.  In  his  ignorance  he 
did  his  best  to  evolve  a  satisfactory 
history  for  Maria  Consuelo  out  of  his 
imagination,  but  the  result  was  not 
satisfactory. 

He  continued  his  visits  to  her* 
resolving  before  each  meeting  that  he 
would  risk  offending  her  by  putting^ 
some  question  which  she  must  either 
answer  directly  or  refuse  to  answer 
altogether.  But  he  had  not  counted 
upon  his  own  inherent  hatred  of  rude- 
ness, nor  upon  the  growth  of  an 
attachment  which  he  had  not  foreseen 
when  he  had  coldly  made  up  his  mind 
that  it  would  be  worth  while  to  make 
love  to  her,  as  Gouache  had  laughingly 
suggested.  Yet  he  was  pleased  with 
what  he  deemed  his  own  coldness. 
He  assuredly  did  not  love  her,  but  he 
knew  already  that  he  would  not  like  to- 
give  up  the  half-hours  he  spent  with 
her.  To  offend  her  seriously  would  be 
to  forfeit  a  portion  of  his  daily  amuse- 
ment which  he  could  not  spare. 

From  time  to  time  he  risked  a  care- 
less, half-jesting  declaration  such  as 
many  a  woman  might  have  taken 
seriously.  But  Maria  Consuelo  turned 
such  advances  with  a  laugh  or  by  an 
answer  that  was  admirably  tempered 
with  quiet  dignity  and  friendly 
rebuke. 

**If  she  is  not  good,"  he  said  to- 
himself  at  last,  *'  she  must  be 
enormously  clever.  She  must  be  one 
or  the  other." 


(7'o  be  continued.) 


346 


PATRICK    HENRY. 


It  is  not  often  that  the  English 
traveller  in  America  finds  his  way  to 
the  capital  of  the  old  Dominion, — that 
pleasant  city  beneath  whose  red  hills 
the  turbulent  James,  with  one  last 
effort  of  rush  and  roar,  subsides  into 
the  broad  reaches  of  its  tidal  way. 
When,  however,  he  does  deviate  thus 
far  from  the  beaten  track,  he  will  find 
in  these  days  of  Southern  progress  the 
factory  and  the  town-lot  uppermost  in 
the  local  mind. 

Twenty  years  ago  it  was  otherwise. 
Richmond  was  then  the  mausoleum  of 
a  ruined  cause,  and  lay  brooding 
helplessly  over  the  ashes  of  the  past. 
It  is  the  Richmond  which  perished, 
socially  and  politically,  amid  the  battle- 
shouts  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  of 
armed  men,  not  the  second-rate  Cin- 
cinnati which  is  arising  in  its  place, 
that  will  most  interest  the  educated 
visitor.  He,  unless  haply  provided  with 
a  better  guide,  will  in  all  probability 
succumb  to  the  importunities  of  the 
Ethiopian  Jehu,  who  will  give  him  not 
only  his  money's  worth  of  locomotion, 
but  a  great  deal  of  gratuitous  informa- 
tion of  both  a  practical  and  a  farcical 
kind.  If  the  negro  hackman  of  Rich- 
mond has  not  of  late  years  gone  back 
on  his  traditions,  he  will  pay  a  tribute 
first  to  ancient  history,  and  drive  at 
his  best  pace,  without  a  word  and  as 
a  matter  of  course,  to  a  venerable 
wooden  edifice  in  a  quiet  street. 
Pausing  in  front  of  this  unimposing 
pile,  and  directing  his  passenger's 
earnest  and  immediate  attention  to  it 
with  the  stump  of  a  broken  whip,  he 
will  thus  address  him, — **  Right  dar's 
whar  old  man  Partick  Henry  spoke  de 
famous  piece  of  liberty  or  def."  Having 
paid  this  time-honoured  tribute  to  the 
vanished  past,  the  worthy  fellow  will 
rattle  on,  with  a  grateful  sense  of 
having  done  his  duty,  into  the  scenes 


of  deeds  more  recent  and  familiar  to 
his  ears  than  the  events  which  pro- 
duced Patrick  Henry's  immortal  ora- 
tion. Even  the  audacious  imagination 
of  a  Southern  Negro,  with  a  Yankee 
or  a  foreigner  to  practise  on,  would 
hardly  claim  to  have  shared  in  the 
debates  of  1772.  In  the  siege  and 
burning  of  Richmond,  however,  our 
friend  will  be  quite  sure  to  have  taken 
an  active  personal  part.  Nor  will  his 
tale  lose  anything  of  its  graphic  luci- 
dity even  if  you  happen  to  know  that, 
during  the  whole  of  these  stormy 
scenes,  he  was  peacefully  and  loyally 
raising  a  crop  of  corn  for  the  family 
of  his  absent  master,  far  out  of  reach 
of  the  distant  thunder  of  the  cannon. 

Patrick  Henry  occupies  an  almost 
unique  place  upon  the  scroll  of  fame. 
I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that  to 
great  numbers  of  cultivated  and  well- 
read  Englishmen  his  name  conveys 
scarcely  any  meaning;  to  the  great 
majority  of  people  upon  this  side,  none 
at  all.  Now,  in  America,  on  the  con- 
trary, his  name  stands  among  the  very 
foremost  of  the  revolutionary  leaders. 
There  is  hardly  a  schoolboy  who  can- 
not repeat  the  more  famous  passages 
in  his  declamations.  That  the  three 
millions  of  Anglo-Saxons  then  in 
America  produced  at  that  period  a 
remarkable  crop  of  capable,  and  many 
even  brilliant  men,  is  a  fact  beyond 
question.  This  excessive  supply  was 
due  partly  no  doubt  to  accident,  but 
also  in  great  measure  to  the  wide  dif- 
fusion of  internal  political  responsi- 
bility. This,  again,  was  abnormally 
developed  by  the  grave  inter-conti- 
nental questions  which  agitated  the 
Colonies  for  so  many  years.  Now  of 
all  the  men  who  rose  to  distinction  as 
founders  of  the  United  States,  Patrick 
Henry  was  by  far  the  greatest  orator, 
and,  in  some  ways,  the  most  striking 


^Patrick  Henry. 


347 


figure.  Eloquence  has  always  carried 
immense  weight  with  it  among  Ameri- 
cans, and  at  that  time  for  many 
reasons  it  was  particularly  effective. 
America  has  been  prolific,  too,  of  fluent 
and  effective  speakers,  but  Henry  still 
stands  out  in  the  estimation  of  his 
countrymen  as  the  greatest  orator 
their  soil  has  produced ;  and  when  one 
recalls  the  momentous  issues  to  which 
his  eloquence  was  so  successfully 
devoted,  it  seems  strange  that  his 
name  should  be  so  much  more  unfa- 
miliar to  English  ears  than  those  of 
Jefferson,  Adams,  Hamilton,  or  Frank- 
lin. As  an  agitator  at  a  critical  time, 
he  may  almost  be  said,  so  far  as  the 
Southern  Colonies  were  concerned,  to 
have  forced  out  of  the  scabbard  by  his 
eloquence  the  sword  that  his  great 
neighbour  and  fellow- Virginian  was 
so  successfully  to  wield. 

Henry  was  born  in  1736  in  the 
county  of  Hanover,  not  very  far  from 
R-ichmond.  His  father  was  a  Scotch- 
man of  a  good,  educated,  middle-class 
family.  His  uncle  was  minister  of 
Borthwick.  One  cousin  was  editor  of 
the  GentUmari! 8  Magazine^  and  another 
Principal  of  Edinburgh  University. 
The  older  Henry  married  a  Virginian 
widow-lady  of  sufficient  property  to 
give  him  at  once  a  foothold  in  the 
squirearchical  society  that  then  ad- 
ministered law  and  justice  in  Colonial 
Virginia.  He  became  county  sur- 
veyor, colonel  of  militia,  and  finally 
presiding  justice  of  the  county  court. 
These  latter  honours,  on  a  somewhat 
smaller  and  less  exacting  scale,  indi- 
cate much  the  same  social  distinction 
they  would  have  done  in  Hampshire 
or  Suffolk. 

Society  was  then  tenaciously  Eng- 
glish,  based  upon  landed  jiroperty  and 
to  some  extent,  though  much  less  than 
in  later  years,  on  negroes.  Imagine 
an  English  county  in  the  last  century 
with  the  higher  aristocracy  removed 
and  the  squires  of  small  or  moderate 
fortune  left,  and  you  have  something 
like  a  county  of  Tidewater,  Virginia,  in 
1736.  The  parallel  is  very  nearly, 
though  not  quite,  complete.     The  Vir- 


ginia squires,  for  instance,  were  such 
by  virtue  of  properties  and  servants 
sufficient  to  maintain  them  as  gentle- 
men farmers,  with  the  manners  and 
education  of  gentlemen  transmitted 
through  each  generation.  Primogeni- 
ture and  entail  were  in  vogue,  and  a 
herald  at  Williamsburg  sat  in  judg- 
ment on  shields  and  quarterings.  His 
difficulties  must  have  been  considerable, 
but  his  existence  sufficiently  indicates 
the  social  formation  of  the  colony. 
These  squires  were  not  to  any  extent 
landlords  in  the  English  sense.  They 
had  no  substantial  following  of  ten- 
antry, but  cultivated  their  own  estates 
with  both  black  and  white  labour. 
Between  the  larger  estates  again  were 
numerous  yeomen  freeholders  of  vari- 
ous grades,  and  below  them  was  a  class 
of  labouring  landless  whites.  This 
social  system  with  modifications  lasted 
till  the  abolition  of  slavery  and  the 
Civil  War. 

Into  such  a  society  was  Patrick 
Henry  born.  In  his  earlier  years  he 
seems  to  have  had  a  positive  hatred 
for  study.  Many  of  the  Virginian 
planters'  sons  in  those  days  went  to 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  more  perhaps 
to  William  and  Mary  College,  the 
Southern  Harvard  of  that  period ; 
numbers  however  depended  on  the 
local  clergyman  or  any  other  rural 
dominie  that  happened  to  be  within 
reach.  Henry's  uncle  was  rector  of 
Hanover  parish  church,  and  his  father 
seems  also  to  have  been  a  well-edu- 
cated man.  Both  of  these  took  the 
unpromising  youth  in  hand  without 
any  apparent  effect  whatever.  He  was 
both  idle  and  boisterous,  passionately 
fond  of  shooting  and  fishing  and  the 
company  of  his  inferiors.  How  much 
Latin  and  Greek  his  fond  relations 
and  preceptors  succeeded  in  drumming 
into  the  embryo  patriot  and  orator  is 
to  this  day  a  question  for  keen  dis- 
cussion among  American  critics  and 
historians  to  whom  his  personality  is 
a  matter  of  undying  interest.  It  was 
sufficient  at  any  rate  to  save  the 
marvellous  eloquence  he  later  on  de- 
veloped from  uncouthness  or  vulgarity. 


348 


Pati*ich  Henry, 


At  fifteen  he  was  a  wastrel  and  an 
idler,  a  reputed  hater  of  books  and 
work,  a  loud-tongued  joker  at  the 
village  tavern.  But  he  was  also  a 
dreamer  with  strong  sylvan  tastes, 
and  could  endure  solitude  and  his  own 
company  for  days  together  in  the 
woods,  which  was  in  his  favour. 

At  sixteen  the  unpromising  Patrick 
was  started  in  the  somewhat  humble 
business  of  a  country  store ;  and  to 
make  disaster  more  certain  his  elder 
brother  was  associated  with  him,  who, 
so  far  as  possessing  the  elements  for 
commercial  success  went,  was  a  more 
hopeless  case  than  even  Patrick  him- 
self. In  the  face  of  the  existing  social 
constitution  of  Virginia  this  career 
seems  at  first  sight  a  strange  one  for 
the  young  Henrys.  The  general  ideas 
however,  even  in  England,  regarding 
the  attitude  of  land  to  trade  in  the 
past  sound  strange  when  the  slightest 
investigation  reveals  to  what  humble 
pursuits  the  country  squires  of  those 
days  apprenticed  their  superfluous  pro- 
geny. However  that  may  be,  in  a 
year  the  Henrys'  business  collapsed, 
and  the  younger  brother  seized  the 
inauspicious  occasion  to  get  married  to 
a  young  woman  as  impecunious  as 
himself  and  of  a  lower  degree.  There 
seems,  however,  to  have  been  no 
quarrel  between  the  families,  for  the 
parents  combined  to  settle  this  hapless 
couple  on  a  small  farm  stocked  with 
half-a-dozen  negroes.  The  farm  failed 
as  completely  as  the  shop.  In  two 
years  he  was  forced  to  give  up  the 
business  and  sell  off  both  stock  and 
negroes.  With  what  little  remained 
from  the  wreck  the  feckless  youth 
once  more  essayed  store-keeping.  This 
latter  trade  was  in  one  sense  more 
congenial  to  his  cast  of  mind.  The 
store  in  the  rural  South,  then  as  now, 
was  the  rustic  rendezvous ;  and  alle  vi- 
dence  agrees  that  if  Henry  was  not 
smart  in  his  dealings  he  was  at  least 
thoroughly  at  home  lolling  with  his 
long  legs  on  the  counter  cracking  jokes 
with  the  common  folk,  gossiping  on  the 
latest  fox-hunt,  or  anxiously  inquiring 
for  the  freshest  sign  of  deer  or  turkey. 


He  had  by  this  time  several  children, 
but  the  collapse  of  his  second  mercan- 
tile ventiu*e  and  consequent  destitution 
seemed  in  no  way  to  oppress  his  spirits. 
He  still  appeared  to  move  in  local  so- 
ciety. Jefferson  has  left  a  record  of  his 
first  meeting  with  the  obscure,  broken- 
down,  young  squireen.  The  former  was 
then  a  youth  at  college,  and  was  spend- 
ing the  Christmas  holidays  at  the  house 
of  a  local  magnate,  Colonel  Dandridge. 
He  recalls  Henry  on  this  occasion. 
"  As  insolvent  but  showing  no  sign  of 
care,  passionately  fond  of  dancing, 
music,  and  pleasantry,  and  with  some- 
thing of  coarseness  in  his  manners." 

Thousands  of  British  troops  had  by 
this  time  been  in  America.  Virginian* 
upon  many  fields  had  fought  and  fallen 
by  their  side.  A  glorious  peace  had 
been  made ;  France,  the  traditional 
bugbear  of  the  Saxon  colonist,  had 
been  swept  from  his  path,  and  the 
road  of  Western  conquest  had  been 
opened.  It  is  always  said  in  America 
that  the  arrogance  of  the  large  bodies 
of  British  troops,  whose  presence  in 
the  Colonies  had  been  made  necessary 
by  the  French  wars,  had  sowed  the 
first  seeds  of  discontent  with  the 
mother  country.  Among  the  jolly 
squires  of  Vii-ginia,  however,  there 
could  have  been  little  cause  for  any 
such  soreness,  and  if  ever  the  Virgin- 
ian heart  swelled  with  loyalty  and 
imperial  pride,  the  year  1759  should 
have  witnessed  the  fulness  of  such 
emotions.  In  his  twenty-fourth  year, 
and  in  the  face  of  not  unmerited  ridi- 
cule, Henry  decided  to  try  the  pro- 
fession of  law,  and  after  a  few  months' 
study  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  to 
Williamsburg,  the  capital  of  the  colony, 
to  qualify  and  procure  his  license. 
The  examiners  were  amazed  by  his 
audacious  ignorance  of  law  and  uncouth 
appearance.  John  Randolph,  howevef, 
then  King's  Attorney-General,  was 
struck  by  the  raw  lad  in  spite  of  these 
disadvantages,  and  procured  a  license 
for  him,  dismissing  him  with  the  re- 
mark, "  If,  your  industry  is  only  half 
equal  to  your  genius  I  augur  that 
you  will  do  well,  and  become  an  or- 


*^ 


Patrick  Henry. 


349 


nament  and  an   honour  to   your  pro- 
fession." 

Three    years    of    obscurity  ensued. 
Jefferson,   who   is   always    prejudiced 
and  inaccurate,  and  had  the  not  un- 
natiu*al  jealousy  of    a  scholar  and  a 
man   of  the   world   for   the   clownish 
education  of  his  great  rival,  said  in  his 
old  age  many  bitter  things  about  the 
latter  which  have  been   proved  pure 
fabrications.     Among  other  long  cre- 
dited   stories   about    Henry,    directly 
traceable  to  the  Voltairian  President, 
is  one   to  the   effect    that  the  young 
Hanover  lawyer  remained  briefless  for 
three  years.      This    would    not    have 
been  surprising  ;  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  his  fee-books  have  recently  come 
to  light  and  show  entries  in  that  short 
period  for  one  thousand  one  hundred 
and  eighty-sev^en  cases  !    His  ignorance 
of  law  at  that  time  only  proves  what 
natural  powers  of   eloquence  he  must 
have    had  to    show    such    a    record. 
Whether  from  natural  tastes  or  from 
policy  Henry  posed  from  the  first  as  a 
'*  people's     man."      He    could    be    a 
gentleman  both  in  speech  and  manner 
when  he   chose,  but  at  this  time  he 
more  frequently  made  use  of  the  ver- 
nacular  picked    up  across    his   store- 
counter  or  among  the  hunters  in  the 
woods.     He  had  a  preference,  we  are 
told,  for  speaking  of  the  earth  as  the 
"  yeai'th "    and    alluding    to    **  man's 
naiteral     parts     bein'     improved     by 
larnin'."     That  a  very  few  years  later 
he  could  make  speeches  which  in  style 
and  diction  would  have  done  honour  to 
any  legislative  assembly  in  the  world 
we  have  most  bulky  and  substantial 
evidence.    That  in  the  very  spot,  how- 
ever, where  Henry  had  been  despised 
as  an   uncouth  wastrel  he  became  so 
soon  in  brisk  demand  as  an  advocate 
is  a  tribute  to  his  genius.     Foiu*  years 
later   he  burst   into   something   more 
than  local  fame,  and  it   was  in   this 
wise  that  it  came  about. 

The  Church  of  England  was  then 
established  in  Virginia.  Dissenters 
had  only  recently  been  held  in  any 
sort  of  toleration.  Tobacco  was  the 
one   great  article  of  export,  and  the 


basis  of  all  currency.     The  established 
clergy,  whimsical  as   it   now  sounds, 
were   actually   paid   in   the   fragrant 
leaf   itself,  sixteen   thousand   pounds 
being  the  share   of   each  incumbent. 
The    price    then    varied   greatly,  the 
clergy  under  a  law  passed  and  duly 
ratified    by    the   King,   taking    their 
chance  in  these  fluctuations.     In  1758 
it  had  risen  to  a  fancy  figure.     Upon 
this    the    Legislature    most   unfairly 
repealed  the  old  law,  and  evaded  by 
some  technicality  the  necessity  for  the 
royal   assent.     Instead  of   the  actual 
leaf,  worth   then   sixpence   a  pound, 
the   unfortunate   parsons   were    com- 
pelled  to  take  an  equivalent  in  the 
depreciated  colonial  currency  at  only 
twopence   a   pound.     In   short,  their 
incomes  for  those  years  were  reduced 
from  £400  to  £133  by  one  fell  swoop. 
A  momentary  freak  of  cupidity  seems 
to  have   tempted   the  colonial   land- 
owners  to   turn    on    the   established 
clergy,     their    natural     allies.      The 
parsons,  however,  meant  fighting,  and 
carried    their    cause    to   the   courts. 
Among  others,  the  rector   of  Frede- 
ricks^le    parish,   one    of    the    well- 
known  Huguenot  family   of   Maury, 
sued  for  damages,  and  his  case,  being 
regarded  as  a  precedent,  created  wide- 
spread interest.     The  initial  decisions 
of  the  law,  and  the  opinion  of  counsel, 
seemed  to  point  to  an  easy  clerical  vic- 
tory. The  defendants  in  despair  turned 
to   the   youthful   Henry,  who   seems 
to  have  been  quite  unknown  outside 
his  own  district.     The  Parson's  Cause 
is  a  marked  and  leading  episode  in  the 
annals  of  Virginia,  and  the  scene  in 
the  old  court-house,  when  the  unknown 
rustic  youth  faced  the  whole  assem- 
blage   of    colonial    ecclesiastics    and 
suddenly  sprang  into  fame,  is  a  pic- 
turesque one.      It  is    one    of    those 
local  incidents  that,  coming  just  before 
the  Revolution,  were   doubly   signifi- 
cant ;  one  of  those  queer  outbursts  of 
popular  passion  that  broke  now  and 
then   upon  the   calmness   of   colonial 
conservatism,  and  sent  a  timid  flutter 
through  the   hearts  of   loyal   squires 
who,  twenty  years  later,  were  in  arms 


:350 


Patrick  Henry. 


against  their  King.  A  jury  of  the 
middle  class  seems  to  have  been  pro- 
cured, and  Henry's  impassioned  decla- 
mation against  the  *'  grasping  clergy  " 
seems  to  have  filled  with  amazement 
both  friend  and  foe.  The  court-house 
was  crammed,  and  the  green  outside 
was  covered  with  a  dense  crowd  from 
all  the  surrounding  counties.  Henry's 
appearance  at  all  in  such  a  case 
smacked  to  many  people  of  assumption. 
His  conduct  of  it,  however,  caused  a 
sensation  which  is  still  recalled  in 
Virginia.  His  father  was  upon  the 
bench  of  magistrates  before  him  ;  his 
uncle,  at  whose  feet  the  idle  stripling 
had  formerly  sat,  was  among  the 
clergy  he  denounced  with  such  fierce 
invective.  His  speech  lasted  an  hour. 
It  electrified  the  whole  audience,  and 
caused  the  jury  to  forget  every  con- 
sideration of  decency  and  return  a 
verdict,  without  retiring,  of  one  penny 
damages ;  it  sent  the  whole  colony  of 
Virginia  into  a  hubbub  of  excitement ; 
and  above  all  it  sounded  the  firs>t  note 
of  that  extraordinary  and  magnetic 
sway  which  Henry,  more  than  any 
American  orator  that  has  ever  lived, 
exercised  over  those  within  reach  of 
his  voice. 

After  this  triumph  Hanover  County 
became  too  small  a  field  for  the  popular 
advocate.  The  colonial  capital  was 
then  Williamsburg.  Hither  were 
dragged,  over  roads  to  this  day  in- 
famous, in  lumbering  coaches  piloted 
by  sable  coachmen  decked  in  livery 
and  duly  impressed  with  the  import- 
ance of  their  several  masters,  the 
Virginian  aristocracy.  At  this  mimic 
Court,  presided  over  usually  by  some 
discarded  courtier,  were  collected  at 
stated  periods  for  business  and  pleasure 
the  wit,  the  wisdom,  and  the  fashion 
of  the  Royal  and  Ancient  Colony.  To 
Williamsburg,  therefore,  Henry  as  a 
matter  of  course  drifted,  and  for  some 
days  an  ill-dressed  rustic  hanging 
about  the  law-courts  and  the  lobbies 
of  the  Parliament  Houses  excited  some 
comment  and  much  ridicule.  Upon 
the  first  opportunity,  however,  which 
Henry  had  he  turned  the  ridicule  of 


the  little  capital  into  amazement  and 
admiration.  Asa  natural  sequence  to 
his  success  he  had  been  returned  to 
the  Legislature  for  an  inland  county. 
The  House  of  Burgesses  was  at  that 
time  a  more  or  less  aristocratic  body. 
Henry,  true  to  the  line  he  had  taken 
up,  found  therein  ample  opportunities 
for  denouncing  privilege  and  its  abuses. 
He  lashed  about  him  with  his  flail  of 
a  tongue  to  such  effect  that  he  was 
soon  the  most  dreaded  debater  in  the 
House. 

It  was  now  1764.  The  Stamp  Act 
had  been  threatened,  and  the  Virginian 
Legislature  was  greatly  occupied  with 
loyal  and  dutiful  remonstrances  against 
its  introduction.  This  was  not  the 
kind  of  work  in  which  Henry  shone  ; 
and  it  was  not  till  the  Act  had  become 
law  that  he  entered  on  that  line  of 
conduct  which  influenced  the  future 
destinies  of  his  country,  and  indeed  of 
ours,  to  an  extent  which  it  is  not  easy 
to  estimate.  Massachusetts  and  Vir- 
ginia were  at  this  time  by  far  the 
most  powerful  colonies.  Their  Legis- 
latures were  the  pivots  on  which  turned 
the  two  sections  of  colonial  America 
they  respectively  represented.  Even 
after  the  passing  of  the  Stamp  Act  the 
Virginia  Assembly,  singularly  rich  at 
that  time  in  capable,  educated,  and 
even  scholarly  men,  was  only  mourn- 
fully silent.  It  was  evident  that 
a  question  of  incomparably  greater 
importance  than  anything  they  had 
ever  before  had  to  decide  upon  was  at 
issue,  and  the  veteran  leaders  of  the 
colony,  by  instinct  strongly  loyal  and 
conservative,  felt  that  every  word 
spoken  should  be  well  weighed.  On 
the  twenty-ninth  of  May  the  House 
went  into  Committee  to  consider  the 
situation.  It  was  a  question  which  of 
the  colonial  chiefs  should  first  venture 
on  a  subject  from  which  all  responsible 
men  shrank.  To  the  amazement  of 
every  one,  and  the  disgust  of  many, 
the  tall,  ungainly,  ill-dressed  figure  of 
the  young  firebrand  from  Hanover 
County  rose  to  his  feet,  took  possession 
of  the  floor,  and  proceeded  to  read 
from  the  torn  fly-leaf  of  an  old  law- 


Patrick  Henry, 


35T 


book  a  series  of  resolutions  bearing 
on   the   Stamp  Act,   and   of   a   most 
advanced  type.      They   may   still   be 
read,  I  believe,  in  their  original  pen- 
cilled scrawl.     They  denounced  as  an 
enemy  to  the  colony  any  one  who  even 
asserted  that  the  principle  which  the 
Stamp   Act   represented    was   lawful, 
and  put  into  definite  and  public  form 
what  men  had  hitherto  hardly  dared 
to   whisper   among   themselves.     The 
debate  which  followed  possesses,  owing 
to   its    consequences,    an    importance 
out    of   all   proportion    to   its   actual 
surroundings.      It   lasted    for    forty- 
eight  hours,  and  in  the  course  of  that 
time   the   almost   pathetic   loyalty  of 
Virginia  seems  to  have  been  for  the 
first  time  seriously  shaken,  and  shaken 
solely   by   the    thunders    of    Patrick 
Henry.      "  Caesar    had    his   Brutus," 
shouted  he ;  *'  Charles  the   First    his 
Cromwell  ;  and  George  the  Third  " — 
{Treason  I  Treason!  sounded  from  the 
floor  and  the  galleries,  while  the  gaunt 
young  lawyer  stood  with  folded  arms 
and  unmoved  face) — "  may  profit  by 
their    example.     If   this   be   treason, 
make  the  most  of  it." 

The  resolutions  were  actually  passed 
by  a  majority  of  two.  The  more  aris- 
tocratic and  conservative  party  was 
overborne  by  the  whirlwind  of  Henry's 
eloquence.  The  same  day  he  mounted 
a  lean  horse,  and  with  flapping  saddle- 
bags and  attired  in  a  hunter's  costume 
rode  out  of  Williamsburg  towards 
Hanover  County.  The  worst  of  the 
resolutions  were  expunged,  so  soon  as 
his  back  was  turned,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  the  older  party.  But  they 
had  already  been  published  and  found 
their  way  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  America.  The  flame  had 
been  kindled  and  had  already  risen  be- 
yond tlie  power  of  the  Legislature. 
The  unre vised  resolutions  were  printed 
and  read  from  Georgia  to  the  Hamp- 
shire Grants.  They  sounded  treason 
in  all  ears,  but  they  embodied  the 
thoughts  of  thousands  and  gave  them 
the  definite  bent  which  was  ere  long  to 
develope  into  action.  The  Virginia 
Resolutions  may  almost  be  said  to  have 


been  sprung  upon  an  astonished  Legis- 
lature, and  carried  through  it  by  a 
burst  of  irresistible,  but  no  doubt 
logical  eloquence  ;  and  these  resolutions 
gave  the  first  great  impetus  to  inde- 
pendence. 

Henry  in  the  course  of  a  long  and 
busy  life  preserved  few  records  of  his 
own  doings  in  writing.  On  the  back 
however  of  the  famous  resolutions  he 
wrote  in  his  last  years  the  following 
note : — 

• 

The  within  resolutions  passed  the  House 
of  Burgesses  in  May,  1765.  They  formed 
the  first  opposition  to  the  Stamp  Act  and 
the  scheme  of  taxing  America  by  the 
British  Parliament.  All  the  colonies, 
either  through  fear  or  want  of  opportunity 
to  form  an  opposition,  or  from  influence 
of  some  kind  or  other,  had  remained 
silent.  I  had  been  elected  burgess  shortly 
before,  was  young,  inexperienced,  unac- 
quainted with  the  forms  of  the  House  and 
tne  members  composing  it.  Finding  the 
men  of  weight  averse  to  opposition  and 
the  commencement  of  the  tax  at  hand,  and 
that  no  person  was  likely  to  step  forth,  I 
determined  to  venture  ;  and  alone,  un- 
advised and  unassisted,  on  a  blank  leaf  of 
an  old  law-book  wrote  the  within.  Upon 
offering  them  to  the  House,  violent  debates 
ensued,  many  threats  were  uttered,  and 
much  abuse  cast  on  me  by  the  party  for 
submission.  After  a  long  and  warm  con- 
test, the  resolutions  passed  by  a  very  small 
majority,  perhaps  of  one  or  two  only.  The 
alarm  spread  throughout  America  with 
astonishing  quickness,  and  the  ministerial 
party  were  overwhelmed.  The  great  point 
of  resistance  to  British  taxation  was  uni- 
versally established  in  the  colonies.  This 
brought  on  the  war,  which  finally  separated 
the  two  countries,  and  gave  independence 
to  ours. 

From  this  time  forward  Henry  be- 
came the  accepted  champion  of  the 
masses  in  Virginia.  Several  genera- 
tions of  a  warm  climate  had  made  the 
Southern  Englishman  a  comparatively 
impressionable  and  excitable  being. 
Conditions  of  life  favoured  the  influence 
of  the  tongue  as  against  that  of  the 
pen.  A  cultivated  minority  still  looked 
on  Henry  as  a  dangerous  demagogue, 
and  jealousy  was  no  doubt  a  factor  in 
this  attitude.  Still  the  young  demo- 
crat was  no  rough  and  uncouth  stump- 


352 


Patrick  Henry, 


orator.  His  speeches  are  admii-able  in 
form  and  language.  Theatrical  even 
beyond  the  custom  of  the  time  he  un- 
doubtedly was,  and  three-fourths  of  the 
secret  of  his  almost  fabulous  influence 
was  due  to  his  manner  and  delivery. 
His  practice  even  before  this  was  large  ; 
but  from  this  time  forward  he  had 
more  work  offered  him  than  he  could 
possibly  accept,  and  he  grew  rich 
rapidly.  In  1765  he  bought  one  pro- 
perty from  his  father,  and  shortly 
afterwards  another  in  his  old  county  of 
Banover. 

From  1765  to  1774  was  an  anxious 
period  in  the  Colonies.  The  thunder- 
clouds of  war  were  slowly  but  surely 
gathering  in  the  sky.  The  coutentious 
and  concentrated  democracies  of  New 
England  discussed  loudly  the  signs  of 
the  times,  but  the  movement  of  opinion 
in  Virginia  was  less  in  evidence.  Up- 
on the  principles  of  the  dispute  gentle- 
men and  yeomen,  churchmen  and  dis- 
senters seemed  to  have  made  up  their 
minds.  All,  however  regarded  separa- 
tion from  the  mother  country  as  an  im- 
probable event,  and  most  contemplated 
such  a  possibility  with  profound  dis- 
may. Before  the  gravity  of  the  situa- 
tion internal  dissensions  ceased.  In 
the  parlour  of  the  great  planter,  in 
the  kitchen  of  the  yeoman,  in  the  log- 
cabin  of  the  hunter,  at  race-meetings 
and  fairs,  at  fox-hunts  and  cock-fights, 
there  was  but  one  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. As  the  clouds  darkened  and  the 
old  kindly  feelings  weakened,  as  sharp 
language  went  backwards  and  forwards 
across  the  Atlantic,  the  tension  began 
to  show  itself,  and  internal  business 
drew  gradually  to  a  standstill.  Through- 
out these  years  Henry  rose  steadily  in 
fame  and  reputation  both  as  a  lawyer 
and  a  politician.  Practising  at  the 
highest  court  of  the  colony  he  achieved 
distinction  at  a  time  when  Virginia 
was  singularly  rich  in  able  lawyers.  In 
the  Legislature  he  exercised  absolute 
sway  over  the  younger  and  more  ad- 
vanced section,  and  had  secured  the 
respect  and  even  the  friendship  of  the 
more  conservative  and  aristocratic. 
Comparative  unanimity,  determination 


coupled  with  a  sincere  horror  of  the 
calamity  such  determination  might 
produce,  chai*acterised  for  the  most 
part  the  people  of  Virginia  during 
those  nine  years.  No  subversive,  no 
socialistic  or  self-seeking  instincts 
worth  mentioning  had  any  part  in 
shaping  opinion.  The  wealthier  classes 
were  not  only  at  one  with  the  common 
people,  but  were  much  more  respon- 
sible for  the  situation  than  the  latter. 
They  had  nothing  personal,  like  the 
Irish  politician  of  to-day,  to  gain  by 
resistance  to  the  mother  country. 
There  is  no  question  but  that  they 
dreaded  such  an  issue,  for  success 
seemed  so  hopeless.  At  the  best  they 
would  be  left  impoverished  citizens  of 
a  colony  too  small  to  stand  alone.  An 
American  nation  was  scarcely  dreamed 
of,  and  in  any  case  such  a  merging  of 
their  colonial  individuality  would  have 
suggested  a  lessening  rather  than  an 
increase  of  their  importance.  Defeat 
on  the  other  hand  meant  ruin.  New 
England  had  been  born  of  antipathies 
to  Church  and  King ;  personal  incli- 
nations were  strong  on  the  side  of  re- 
volt. But  Virginia  was  the  very 
opposite.  Of  later  years  it  is  true 
commuuities  of  various  kinds  had 
arisen  in  her  back  territories  among 
whom  anti-British  feelings  might  exist 
or  easily  ripen  ;  but  such  communities 
were  still  exotic,  and  though  not  voice- 
less, were  uninfluential  and  out  of  har- 
mony with  the  general  life  and  feeling. 
Yet  resistance,  when  it  did  come  in 
Virginia,  found  exponents  and  leaders 
among  the  wealthy  and  the  educated. 
On  the  twenty-fourth  of  May,  1774,  the 
news  of  the  closing  of  the  port  of  Boston 
arrived,  and  the  Virginian  Legislature 
passed  a  resolution  appointing  the  first 
of  June  as  "  A  day  of  fasting,  humilia- 
tion and  prayer,  devoutly  to  implore 
the  Divine  interposition  for  averting 
the  heavy  calamity  which  threatens 
destruction  to  our  civil  rights  and  the 
evils  of  civil  war."  As  an  answer  to 
this  the  Governor,  Lord  Dunmore, 
summoned  the  House  to  the  Council 
Chamber  and  dissolved  them  with 
quaint    and    unceremonious    brevity. 


Patrick  Henry. 


353 


The  leaders  of  the  House,  including  the 
now  prominent  and  influential  Henry, 
retired  into  continuous  and  private 
conference.  A  well  known  personage 
of  that  time,  who  was  admitted  to 
some  of  these  conferences,  has  left  in 
writing  the  following  testimony.  "  He 
[Henry]  is  by  far  the  most  powerfvQ 
speaker  I  ever  heard,  but  eloquence  is 
the  smallest  part  of  his  merit.  He  is, 
in  my  opinion,  the  first  man  upon  this 
continent  as  well  in  abilities  as  in  pub- 
lic vii'tues." 

The  famous  Philadelphia  Congress  of 
1774  was  now  summoned.  The  Vir- 
ginia Convention  appointed  as  its  dele- 
gates, "The  Honourable  Peyton  Ran- 
dolph, Esq.,  Richard  Henry  Lee, 
George  Washington,  Patrick  Henry, 
Richard  Bland,  Benjamin  Harrison, 
and  Edmund  Pendleton,  Esquires,  to 
represent  the  Colony  in  the  said  Con- 
gress." 

Patrick  Henry,  mounted  on  a  better 
horse,  we  may  suppose,  than  that  on 
which  nine  years  previously  he  had 
ridden  out  of  Williamsburg  with  the 
Virginia  Resolutions  in  his  pocket,  and 
with  doubtless  better  filled  saddle-bags, 
started  for  the  North  in  the  hot  sun 
of  a  Virginian  August.  He  broke  his 
journey  at  Washington's  seat.  Mount 
Vernon,  and  the  two  men  travelled  on 
together. 

In  the  counsels  at  Philadelphia 
there  is  ample  evidence  that  Henry 
took  a  prominent  part  and  ac- 
tively assisted  in  framing  the  resolu- 
tions there  passed.  Adams,  in  a 
letter  to  Jefferson  on  the  subject  of 
the  Congress,  says,  **  Patrick  Henry 
was  the  only  man  who  appeared 
sensible  of  the  precipice,  or  rather 
pinnacle  on  which  we  stood,  and  had 
candour  and  courage  enough  to  ac- 
knowledge it."  Henry's  crowning 
work,  however,  in  relation  to  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Colonies  was  to  be  achieved 
at  home. 

War  was  now  regarded  as  a  possi- 
bility ;  but  judging  from  the  private 
correspondence  of  that  time  never  did 
men  regard  an  appeal  to  arms  with 
such    reluctance.       Every   county    in 

No.  389. — VOL.  Lxv. 


Virginia  was  arming  volunteers,  but 
as  a  means  to  stave  off  if  possible 
rather  than  to  promote  war,  which  as 
yet  had  been  only  contemplated  as  a 
calamity  to  be  averted  at  every  cost 
except  that  which  the  colonists  con- 
sidered to  be  their  liberty  and  their 
honour. 

On  the  twentieth  of  March  the  second 
Convention  of   Virginia  was   held  in 
the   church    at  Richmond   to    which 
allusion  has  been  made  as  still  stand- 
ing.    Patrick  Henry  alone  came  to  it 
with  his  mind  made  up  that  war  was 
inevitable.    He  gave  utterance  to  that 
conviction    in    impassioned    language 
which  not  only  brought  over  the  re- 
presentatives  of   his   own,  the    most 
powerful,  colony  to  his  way  of  think- 
ing, but  made  a  profound  impression 
•throughout  America.      The   words  of 
this    momentous    speech    have    been 
familiar  to  generations  of   American 
schoolboys,  and  it  has  a  place  entirely 
its  own  among  patriotic  orations.    The 
large  gathering  of  Virginian  squires 
and  lawyers  on  whom  the  eyes  of  the 
other    colonies    were    anxiously  fixed 
came   together  in  a   mournfully  pro- 
testing   rather    than    an    aggressive 
mood.       They    were  determined,    but 
they  had  a  vague  dread  of  what  such 
determination  might  mean.     Henry  in 
their  eyes   was  still   something  of   a 
demagogue  and  an  upstart,  but  before 
the  magnetism   of    his   oratory   such 
considerations    were    soon    forgotten. 
H!e  spoke  on   this   occasion   for    two 
hours  and  when  he  sat  down  Virginia 
was  practically  in  revolt. 

This  is  no  time  for  ceremony  [he  said]  ; 
the  question  before  the  House  is  one  of  aw- 
ful moment  to  this  country.  For  my  own 
part  I  consider  it  nothing  less  than  a 
question  of  freedom  or  slavery,  and  in 
proportion  to  the  magnitude  of  the  subject 
ought  to  be  the  freedom  of  the  debate.  .  . 
Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you,  deceive  our- 
selves longer.  We  have  done  everything 
that  could  be  done  to  avert  the  approach- 
ing storm.  We  have  petitioned,  we  have 
remonstrated,  we  have  supplicated,  we  have 
prostrated  ourselves  before  the  Throne 
and  have  implored  its  interposition  to 
arrest  the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  Ministry 

A    A 


354 


Patrick  Henry, 


and  Parliament.  Our  petitions  Lave  been 
slighted,  our  supplications  have  been  dis- 
regarded, and  we  have  been  spumed  with 
contempt  from  the  foot  of  the  Throne.  .  .  . 
In  vain  after  these  things  may  we  indulge 
the  fond  hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation. 
There  is  no  longer  any  room  for  hope. 
If  we  wish  to  be  free,  if  we  mean  to  pre- 
serve inviolate  the  inestimable  privileges 
for  which  we  have  been  so  long  contend- 
ing, if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the 
noble  struggle  in  which  we  have  been  so 
long  engaged  we  must  fight ;  Sir,  I  repeat 
it,  we  must  fight.  An  appeal  to  arms  and 
the  God  of  Hosts  is  all  that  is  left  us. 
....  The  battle  is  not  to  the  strong, 
but  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  and  the 
brave.  Besides,  Sir,  we  have  no  election  ! 
There  is  no  retreat  but  in  submission  and 
slavery.  Our  chains  are  forged  !  Their 
clanking  may  be  heard  upon  the  plains  of 
Boston.  The  war  is  inevitable,  and  let  it 
come  ;  I  repeat.  Sir,  let  it  come  !  Gentle- 
men may  cry  peace,  but  there  is  no  peace. 
Why  stand  we  here  idle  1  What  is  it  we 
wish,  what  would  we  have  ?  Is  life  so 
dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased 
at  the  price  of  chains  and  slavery  ?  For- 
bid it,  Almighty  God  !  I  know  not  what 
course  others  may  take,  but  as  for  me  I — 
give  me  liberty,  or  give  me  death  ! 

The  effect  of  this  famous  speech 
with  its  impassioned  peroration,  was 
great  and  far  reaching.  Henry  in  his 
manner  of  delivery  exceeded  every 
former  effort,  and  completely  carried 
his  whole  audience  with  him.  When 
he  sat  down  Virginia,  as  I  have  said, 
was  practically  in  revolt,  and  Vir- 
ginian influence  was  then  immense. 

Here  Henry's  career,  in  an  inter- 
national sense,  may  be  said  to  cease. 
Individually,  however,  his  life,  which 
was  ever  an  active  one  in  his  own 
country,  is  full  of  interest  to  the  end. 
In  the  first  burst  of  enthusiasm 
Henry,  like  most  men  of  his  type 
burning  to  distinguish  himself  in  the 
field,  was  made  by  his  grateful  coun- 
trymen commander-in-chief  of  the 
Virginian  levies,  and  actually  headed 
one  expedition  by  which  the  peace 
was  first  broken.  But  the  jealous 
professional  spirit,  of  which  after  the 
long  French  and  Indian  wars  there 
was  much  in  the  Colonies,  soon  sent 
the  impetuous  orator  back  to  his  own 


sphere  of  the  council-chamber.  The 
latter  part  of  Henry's  life,  though 
passed  in  a  less  public  atmosphere, 
increases  one's  respect  for  him,  and 
shows  him  to  have  been  no  self- 
seeking  demagogue  nor  reckless  agi- 
tator. Like  many  popular  advocates 
of  advanced  views,  he  grew  more  con- 
servative with  increasing  years.  He 
was  an  active  legislator  for  Virginia 
throughout  the  war,  and  was  for  ten 
years  Governor  of  his  native  State, 
leaving  that  office  a  much  poorer  man 
than  he  entered  it ;  so  much  so  indeed 
that  he  had  no  option  but  to  return 
again  to  the  practice  of  law.  The 
highest  offices  in  the  United  States 
were  within  his  reach.  The  Treasury 
at  one  time  was  pressed  upon  him,  at 
another  the  Embassy  to  France ;  but 
whatever  his  ambitions  may  have  been 
in  earlier  life,  his  riper  years  seem  to 
have  been  absolutely  free  from  all 
desire  of  political  advancement.  In 
the  heat  of  the  great  struggle  he  was 
the  first  to  speak  of  himself  as  "no 
longer  a  Virginian  but  an  American." 
Yet  in  the  peaceful  chaos  that  fol- 
lowed, and  in  the  face  of  the  Federation 
schemes  that  lit  again  the  embers  of 
provincial  patriotism  and  faction,  he 
became  again  a  Virginian  in  some- 
thing of  the  old  sense.  If  Virginia 
was  in  jeopardy  he  grudged  no  expen- 
diture of  time  and  energy,  and  looked 
for  no  reward.  When  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States  came  before  the 
people  of  Virginia  for  ratification, 
Henry  opposed  it  with  all  the  weight 
of  his  power  and  talents,  throwing 
himself  with  tireless  energy  into  the 
struggle.  Though  opposed  in  this 
particular  to  Washington,  he  never 
lost  his  friendship ;  but  with  Hamilton, 
the  great  Federalist,  he  had  little  in 
common,  and  regarded  him  with  pro- 
found distrust.  When  the  Consti- 
tution had  once  become  law,  however, 
it  will  ever  be  to  Henry's  credit  that 
there  was  no  one  in  Virginia  who  so 
unsparingly  denounced  those  of  its 
enemies  who,  from  spite  and  disap- 
pointment, endeavoured  to  obstruct 
its  working.     His  sense  of  equity  was 


Patrick  Henry. 


355 


also  well  illustrated  when  the  question 
of  the  British  debts  and  treatment  of 
Tories  came  on  after  the  war.  No 
one  had  been  so  forward  in  urging 
opposition  to  the  mother  country  ;  but 
few  in  Virginia,  when  the  strife  was 
over,  were  so  active  in  urging  fair 
treatment  to  those  of  their  country- 
men whose  opinions  or  bad  fortune 
had  brought  them  into  conflict  with 
their  former  neighbours.  One  could 
well  imagine  that  popularity  had  be- 
come as  the  very  breath  of  his  nostrils 
to  a  man  of  Henry's  peculiar  position. 
But  he  knowingly  risked  and  actually 
lost  much  of  this  in  later  life  by  an 
outspoken  championship  of  what  he 
conceived  to  be  right  and  just.  He 
died  with  the  last  year  of  the  century, 
broken  in  health,  though  not  much 
over  middle  age.  He  had  grown  rich 
in  landed  estate,  not  so  much  from  his 
later  law-practice  as  from  his  judicious 
purchases,  and  general  capacity  for 
business  which  seems  to  have  entirely 
belied  the  incompetency  of  his  youth. 
Men  who  knew  him  at  the  close  of  his 
life  bear  witness  to  his  singular 
modesty  regarding  the  talents  which 
had  made  him  famous.  Whatever 
vanity  or  egotism  was  in  his  nature 
showed  itself  singularly  enough  in  a 
desire  to  be  thought  a  good  judge  of 
land  and  stock  and  a  competent 
administrator  of  rural  affairs. 

Henry  died  at  his  principal  residence 
perched  upon  that  high  ridge  of  red 
hills  beneath  which  the  turgid  waters 
of  the  Staunton  river  tumble  and 
sweep  through  low-lying  corn  fields 
towards  the  Carolina  line.  Here,  in 
patriarchal  Virginian  fashion,  no  longer 
fit  for  an  active  life,  Henry  sat  in  a 


chair  upon  his  lawn  watching  and 
directing  his  negroes  in  the  broad 
flats  below.  Tradition  says  that  the 
marvellous  voice  which  more  strenu- 
ously and  effectively  than  any  other 
upon  the  continent  had  thundered 
against  King  George  in  former  days, 
stood  the  old  orator  in  good  stead  in 
the  peaceful  pursuits  of  his  declining 
years. 

The  brevity  with  which  I  have 
treated  in  this  paper  the  last  twenty 
years  of  Henry's  life  needs,  perhaps, 
some  explanation.  Among  his  own 
countrymen  every  detail  of  the  career 
of  such  a  familiar  historical  figure  is 
of  undying  interest ;  but  to  the 
notice  of  most  English  readers  Patrick 
Henry  comes,  I  thiijk,  but  as  a  shadowy 
name.  His  life  can  be  divided  into 
two  distinct  periods.  The  first  has  an 
international  interest,  and  consists  of 
the  almost  magical  transformation  of 
the  despised  clown,  through  a  series  of 
dramatic  situations,  to  a  leading  figure 
and  potent  factor  in  one  of  the  greatest 
struggles  in  English  history.  In  the 
second  his  activity  ceases  to  have  any 
international  significance,  and  is  re- 
duced by  the  march  of  events  to  a 
purely  provincial  and  domestic  stage. 
The  former,  as  a  subject  of  interest  to 
Englishmen,  needs  no  apology.  The 
latter  would  only  be  'welcome  where 
some  sympathy  with  the  personality 
of  Henry,  and  the  conditions  of  the 
Southern  Colonies  after  the  war,  had 
been  awakened.  Lastly,  within  so 
limited  a  space  I  could  only  dwell  in 
detail  on  the  last  at  the  expense  of 
the  first,  the  more  dramatic  and  the 
more  important. 

A.  G.  Bradley. 


A   A    2 


356 


HAMLET   AND    THE    MODERN    STAGE. 


"  It  may  seem  a  paradox,  but  I  can- 
not help  being  of  opinion  that  the 
plays  of  Shakespeare  are  less  calculated 
for  performance  on  a  stage  than 
those  of  any  other  dramatist  what- 
ever.'* This  passage  probably  recurs 
to  most  who  remember  Lamb*s  essay  On 
the  Tragedies  of  Shakespea/re,  as  they 
wait  for  the  curtain  to  rise  on  one  of  the 
great  plays.  They  will  recall  it  of 
course  in  various  moods.  Some  will 
cheerfully  anticipate  one  more  trium- 
phant refutation  of  ^hat  they  have 
grown  accustomed  to  call  **  Lamb's 
paradox  "  (a  title  which  he  indeed  anti- 
cipated for  it) ',  some  will  half-heartedly 
hope  to  find  their  wavering  faith  at 
last  established  even  at  Lamb's  ex- 
pense ;  some  will  resignedly  settle 
themselves  to  witness  yet  another  com- 
plete vindication  of  his  judgment. 
But  to  almost  all  who  have  once  read 
them  will  the  words  recur. 

Nothing  perhaps  that  has  ever  been 
written  on  the  purpose  of  playing  has 
been  so  much  criticized  as  this  essay, 
and    perhaps     nothing    so    adversely 
criticized.     That    the    actors    should 
have    always     been      against     it     is 
not  surprising.     They  have  naturally 
regarded    it   solely   from   their   point 
of     view  ;     and     it    would      be    un- 
I'easonable  to  expect  them  to  impar- 
tially consider,  much  less  to  acquiesce 
in,  a  theory  which  runs  counter  to  the 
most  cherished  traditions  of  their  pro- 
fession.    But  many  others,  personally 
disinterested  and  intellectually  capable 
of  appreciating  Shakespeare  without  the 
assistance  of  the  actor,  have  equally 
refused  to  accept  Lamb's  verdict.  Fore- 
most among  them  in  our  time  stands 
Canon  Ainger.      Lamb,  as  has    been 
said   of    Wordsworth,  seems   to   have 
brought  his  admirers  luck.     All  who 
have   praised    him    have   praised  him 
well,    but    none    better    than    Canon 


Ainger,  who  has  moreover,  as  all  men 
know,  edited  his  works  with  rare  judg- 
ment, taste,  and  industry.  Yet  even 
he  is  against  Elia  on  this  point.  From 
Canon  Ainger's  opinions  on  any  sub- 
ject I  should  always  differ  with  great 
caution  and  (I  know  that  he  needs  no 
assurance  of  this)  with  the  greatest 
respect.  If  any  one  could  persuade 
me  that  Lamb  was  wrong,  it  would  be 
he ;  and  indeed  he  has  undoubtedly 
laid  his  unerring,  but  always  gentle, 
finger  on  several  weak  points  in  the 
essay.  He  has  shown  that  it  was 
written  with  the  deliberate  intention 
of  making  out  the  worst  possible  case 
against  the  actor ;  he  has  shown  that 
much  of  what  is  assumed  to  be  the  in- 
evitable limitations  of  acting,  is  true 
only  of  bad  acting.  Lamb  loved  the 
stage  dearly ;  his  sympathy  with  the 
actor  and  all  his  works  was  keen,  his 
judgment  of  them  sound.  Small  won- 
der then  that  he  was  provoked  to  wrath 
by  the  contemplation  of  that  monstrous 
epitaph  on  Garrick  which  was  suffered 
in  an  evil  hour  to  make  him  and  his 
profession  ridiculous  for  ever  on  the 
walls  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

To  paint  fair  nature  by  divine  command, 
Her  magic  pencil  in  his  glowing  hand, 
A  Shakespeare  rose  :  then  to  expand  his 

fame 
Wide  o'er  tliis  breathing  world,  a  Garrick 

came. 
Though  sunk  in  death  the  forms  the  Poet 

drew, 
The  Actor's  genius  made  them  breathe 

anew  ; 
Though  like  the  bard  himself,  in  night 

they  lay, 
Immortal   Garrick    call'd  them    back   to 

day: 
And  till  Eternity  with  power  sublime 
Shall  mark   the   mortal  hour  of   hoary 

Time, 
Shakespeare  and  Garrick  like  twin  stars 

shall  shine, 
And  Earth  irradiate  with  a  beam  divine. 


{( 


Hamlet''  and  the  Modern  Stage. 


357 


We  have  heard  something  like  this  in 
our  own  day.     But  an  actor  may  give 
what  laws  he  likes  to  his  own  little 
senate;  it  is  a  very  different  matter  when 
these  laws  come  to  be  graven  on  stone 
and  set  up  in   high    places.      So   far 
every    one   must    agree   with   Canon 
Ainger's    objections  ;    but    when    he 
says   that    "the    most    obvious    criti- 
cism upon  the  paper  is  that  it  proves 
too  much,  and  makes  all  theatrical  re- 
presentations not  only  superfluous,  but 
actually  injurious  to  the  effect  of   a 
drama,"  surely  he  goes  a  little  too  far. 
To  make  this  conclusion  good  it  would 
first  be  necessary  to  assume  that  every 
dramatist  was  a  Shakespeare.     It  is 
of    the  effect  produced  by  theatrical 
representation  on  Shakespeare's  plays 
that    Lamb    writes,   and    on    Shake- 
speare's only.     The  whole  point  of  his 
contention  lies  in  this.    It  is  "  their  dis- 
tinguished excellence  "  that  separates 
them  from  other  plays ;  **  There  is  so 
much  in  them  which  comes  not  under  the 
province  of  acting,  with  which  eye,  and 
tone,  and  gesture  have  nothing  to  do." 
It  is  in  this  particular  sentence  that 
the  sting  seems  to  lie  for  the  actor, 
who  appears  to  consider  it  a  libel  on 
his  profession.     A  certain  measure  of 
irritableness  is  justly  conceded  to  the 
artistic  temperament, and  is  indeed,  one 
may  say,  a  complement  of   it.      But 
surely  it  transcends  all  reason  to  de- 
mand that  the  very  laws  of  Nature 
herself    shall   be   suspended    for    the 
actor's  sake  alone.     I  have  never  read 
that   the   poets  and   painters   of    the 
world  have  taken  arms  against  Lessing, 
who  has  defined  their  respective  pro- 
vinces   in   his   Laocoon.      All  human 
powers  have  their  limitations,  and  the 
jictor's  are  bounded  not  by  art  but  by 
the     resources     of     humanity.       His 
natural     gifts    may     enable    him    at 
moments  **  to  snatch  a  grace  beyond 
the   reach  of  art  "  ;  but  art,  much  as 
it  may  improve  his  natural  gifts,  vital 
as  it  must  be  to  their  proper  employ- 
nient.  can  never  raise  him  beyond  their 
level.       Let    him    be    the   intellectual 
mate  of  Shakespeare  himself,  it  mat- 
ters   nothing.       When   he    comes    to 


give  form  and  substance  to  those  great 
creations  of  the  poet's  fancy,  he  cannot 
break  from  the  common  bondage  of 
mortality.  What  voice  and  gesture 
and  bearing  can  do  for  him,  he  can  do  ; 
but  he  can  do  no  more.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible that  any  intelligent  man  can 
read  the  greatest  of  these  plays  with 
unbiassed  mind  and  yet  maintain  that 
those  fine  visions  (to  use  Lamb's  own 
words)  should  lose  nothing  when 
materialized  and  brought  down  to  the 
standard  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Most  of  those  who  have  taken  up 
their  parable  against  this  essay  have 
concerned    themselves     only    with    a 
general    defence    of    the   actor,    and 
an   attempt    to    remove,   or  at   least 
to   diminish,   the    limitations  that  it 
would  place  on  his  art.     This  was  to 
be    expected,   for    one    among   many 
reasons  because  it  is  on  this  side  that 
the  attack  mainly  proceeds.     But   in 
so  doing  they  have  perhaps  rather  lost 
sight   of   a  qualifying    clause  in   the 
argument.      Canon  Ainger    does    not 
notice  it,  nor,  so   far  as  my  memory 
serves  me,  do  any  who  have  taken  the 
same  side  with  him.     Yet  it  is  an  ex- 
tremely important  clause,  not  only  as 
containing  the  essence  of  Lamb's  con- 
tention,  but   as  capable  of  so   much 
wider  significance  than  he  chose  to  give 
to  it.     "It  is  true,"  he  writes,  ** that 
there  is  no  other  way  of  conveying  a 
vast  quantity  of  thought  and  feeling 
to  a   great    portion   of  the  audience, 
who  otherwise  would  never  learn  it  for 
themselves  by  reading,  and  the  intellec- 
tual acquisition  gained  this  way  may, 
for  aught  I  know,  be  inestimable  ;  but 
lavi  not  a/rguing  tlmt  Hamlet  should  not 
he  acted,  but  how  much  Hamlet  is  made 
anoiluer  thing  by  being  acted."     Let  it 
be  granted  that  Lamb  has  been  some- 
times deliberately  unjust  to  the  actor  ; 
let  it  be  granted  that  he  did  not  suffi- 
ciently care  to  distinguish  between  the 
inevitable  limitations  of  acting  and  the 
accidental    limitations  of   bad  acting. 
Will  any  one  refuse  to  grant  that,  as 
matters  now  stand,  Shakes|)eare'8  plays 
are  "  made   another   thing  by   being 
acted  " ? 


358 


"  Hamlet "  and  the  Modern  Stage, 


We  have  been  told  that  it  is 
only  "  a  conceited  and  feather-headed 
assumption  '*  to  think  it  possible  to 
appreciate  Shakespeare's  plays  better 
in  reading  them  than  in  seeing  them 
acted,  "  a  gross  and  pitiful  delusion," 
^*  an  affectation  of  special  intellec- 
tuality," and  I  know  not  what  else. 
These  are  flourishes  on  the  actor's 
trumpet  at  which  one  may  smile 
without  being  a  villain.  No  intel- 
lectual superiority,  so  far  as  I 
know,  is  claimed  by  those  who 
contend  that  they  find  themselves  in 
better  cue  to  understand  Shakespeare's 
work  in  the  study  than  on  the  stage. 
Their  only  claim,  as  I  apprehend  it,  is 
that  in  the  book  they  have  his  whole 
work  before  them,  so  much  of  it 
at  least  as  meddling  time  has 
left,  and  with  it  have  therefore  the 
best  chance  to  "  learn  his  great  lan- 
guage, catch  his  clear  accents,"  as 
they  have  come  down  to  us  through 
the  centuries  from  his  own  lips ;  whereas 
on  the  stage  they  must  be  content  with 
so  much  of  them  as  human  voices  can 
compass,  with  such  fragments  of  those 
imperial  proportions  as  room  can  be 
found  for  within  its  narrow  limits. 

Can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  1    Or  may  we 

cram 
Within  this  wooden  0  the  very  casques 
That  did  afi'right  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 

The  most  triumphant  actor  cannot 
surely  be  blind  to  the  patent  fact  that 
Shakespeare's  plays  as  now  acted  are 
not  the  same  things  that  we  read.  He 
may  of  course  affirm  that  they  are 
better  things ;  that  is  a  matter  of 
opinion.  The  same  things  they  are 
not,  and  cannot  be. 

That  there  are  many  reasons  why 
this  should  be  so,  no  one  at  all  con- 
versant with  the  conditions  of  the 
modern  stage  and  the  state  of  the 
public  taste  will  need  to  be  told. 
Nor  would  it  be  reasonable  in  those  con- 
ditions to  complain  that  it  is  so.  But 
the  fact  surely  tends  to  put,  at  least,  a 
somewhat  strange  complexion  on  the  as- 
sertion still  sometimes  made  that  the 


genius  of  Shakespeare  can  only  be 
rightly  estimated  in  the  theatre.  JSx 
pede  Herculem  1  We  have  all  heard 
that  there  are  circumstances  in  which 
the  part  becomes  greater  than  the 
whole.  Are  we  to  assume  then  that 
we  can  only  rightly  understand  and 
appreciate  the  whole,  let  me  say,  of 
Hamlet,  from  such  portions  and  parcels 
of  it  as  the  inevitable  conditions  of 
the  modern  stage  allow  to  be  used  % 
If  those  who  held  this  theory  held  also 
that  Shakespeare,  great  poet  as  he  is, 
is  not  equally  great  as  a  playwright, 
their  argument  would  at  least  be  in- 
telligible. But  their  contention  is  the 
very  opposite  of  this.  Shakespeare's 
consummate  stagecraft  is  the  one  par-  . 
ticular  quality  which  precludes  his 
being  rightly  appreciated  anywhere 
but  on  the  stage.  Yet  on  the  stage 
the  real,  the  complete  Shakespeare  is 
never  seen  !  Surely  there  is  a  flaw 
somewhere  in  this  argument. 

Mr.  Saintsbury  has  recently  added 
one  more  to  the  many  good  offices  he 
has  already  rendered  to  the  literature 
of  criticism  by  collecting  and  trans- 
lating the  essays  of  that  accomplished 
critic,  M.  Edmond  Sch^rer,  on  cer- 
tain English  writers  both  of  our  own 
and  earlier  times.  In  this  volume — 
so  useful  for  those  who  are  beginning 
their  education  in  literature  and  can- 
not learn  too  soon  that  good  prose  and 
good  criticism  can  still  be  written 
without  extravagance,  affectation,  or 
obscurity — in  this  volume,  I  say,  are 
two  essays  on  Shakespeare,  or  rather, 
as  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say,  on 
certain  theories  about  Shakespeare,  in 
one  of  which  occurs  a  passage  relevant 
to  the  case  in  point,  and  which 
assuredly  cannot  be  called  one-sided. 

What  makes  Shakespeare's  greatness  is 
his  equal  excellence  in  every  portion  of 
his  art — in  style,  in  character,  and  in 
dramatic  invention.  No  one  has  ever 
been  more  skilful  in  the  playwright's 
craft.  The  interest  begins  at  the  first 
scene  ;  it  never  slackens,  and  you  cannot 
possibly  put  down  the  book  before  finish- 
ing it.  .  .  .  Hence  it  is  that  Shakespeare's 
pieces  are  so  effective  on  the  stage  ;  they 
were  intended  for  it,  and  it  is  as  acted 


''  Hamid''  and  the  Modern  Stage, 


359 


plays  that  we  must  judge  them.  .  .  .  They 
might  succeed  better  still  if  the  conditions 
of  representation  had  not  changed  so  much 
in  the  last  century.  We  demand  to-day  a 
kind  of  science  illusion  to  which  Shake- 
speare's theatre  does  not  lend  itself — the 
action  shifts  too  often.  .  .  .  the  fifth  act 
of  Julius  Ccesar  sets  before  us  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  battle  of  Philippi  ;  the 
fifth  act  of  Richard  the  Third  shows  us 
the  two  rivals  encamped  and  asleep,  so 
near  each  other  that  the  ghosts  are  able  to 
speak  to  each  of  them  by  turns.  There  is 
no  modern  stage-management  which  can 
overcome  such  difficulties.  Thus  it  would 
appear  that  Shakespeare  is  destined  to  be 
played  less  and  less  ;  but  the  playwright's 
cleverness  which  he  displays  is  not  more 
wasted  for  that.  From  it  comes  the  life, 
the  incomparable  activity,  with  which  his 
pieces  are  endowed  no  less  than  in  the 
representation. 

M.  Scherer  might  have  strengthened 
his  illustrations  with  the  third  act  of 
Antcyiiy  and  Cleopatra,  in  which  there 
are  eleven  changes  of  scene  ranging 
over  a  considerable  part  of  the  known 
world  :    Rome,  Syria,  Egypt,  Greece, 
backwards    and    forwards    from    one 
country  to  another.     It  will  be  seen 
that  he  fully   concedes    that   Shake- 
speare's   plays    should  be   judged,  as 
plays,  as  primarily  intended  for  the 
theatre  ;  but  the  changed  condition  of 
theatrical  representation    must  inevi- 
tably  prevent   them   being   acted   as 
Shakespeare  wrote  them.     They  must 
either  be  left  alone,  or  acted  in  some 
different  form  from  that  he  designed 
for  them,  or  our  theatres  must  revert 
to     the    pristine    simplicity    of     the 
Elizabethan    stage.      This    is    not   a 
question  of  opinion  ;  it  is  a  question  of 
simple  fact,   which    has   been  proved 
beyond  all   shadow  of   doubt  to    the 
eyes    and    understandings     of    every 
Victorian  playgoer  who  cares  to  use 
either.     It  is  true  we  do  not  play  such 
fantastic   tricks    with    him    as    were 
played  in  the  last  century,  when  even 
Garrick  could  stoop  not  only  to  employ 
Tate's    and    Gibber's    travesties,    but 
even  to  make  one  of  his  own.     But 
has  any  living  Englishman  seen  one  of 
♦Shakespeare's  plays  acted  in  accordance 
with    the    printed    text  ?     Some    ten 


years   or   so   ago   indeed   an  amiable 
enthusiast  persuaded   a    company    of 
amateurs    to    exhibit    themselves   in 
what   he  was  pleased  to  call  the  ori- 
ginal  or     genuine  Hamlet,   after  the 
text  of    the   First   Quarto    published 
in    1603.      The    general    opinion,    I 
believe,  is  not  in  favour  of  this  theory, 
holding  the  text  of  this  edition  to  be 
no  better  than  a  rough  draft,   eked 
out   from   the    memory,   or    want   of 
memory,  of   the  players.     But  what- 
ever the  relationship  of  this   version 
may  be  to  the  play  the  world  knows 
as   Hamlet,  the   aforesaid   exhibition, 
for  all  its  confident  reproduction  of  the 
stage  and  costumes  of  the  time,  did  not 
succeed    in    convincing    a    somewhat 
mocking  public  that  they  had  at  last 
got  the  genuine  Shakespeare.     I  can- 
not profess  to  be  an  exact  historian 
of  our  theatre,  but  I  do  not  think  I 
am  far  out  in  the  assertion  that  no 
one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  within  this 
generation   at    least,    if    within    this 
century,  has  ever  been  acted  in  exact 
accordance  with  the  printed  text.     It 
is   useless,   therefore,   to    argue   that 
Shakespeare's     plays,     having     been 
written   to   be   acted,  can  be  judged 
only  by  being  acted,  until  we  bring 
back  the  stage  for  which  they  were 
written,  and  on  that  stage  act  them  as 
they  were  written.     What  the  result 
of  such  an  experiment  might  be,  it  is 
not  now  necessary  to  consider.     But 
until   it    has    been    made,  the  argu- 
ment has  no  ground  to  stand  on.     The 
conditions  of  the  Athenian  drama  were 
not  more  different  from  those  of  the 
Elizabethan,  than  were  the  conditions 
of  the  Elizabethan  drama  from  those 
of  the  Victorian.     Indeed,  it  might, 
perhaps,  be  no  very  difficult  matter  to 
show  more  points  of  similarity  between 
the  theatre  of  Euripides  and  the  theatre 
of  Shakespeare  than  could  be  found 
between  the   theatre  of   Shakespeare 
and  the  theatre  of  Mr.  Jones. 

M.  Scherer  is  not  the  only  French 
critic  who  has  commented  in  our  time 
on  the  essential  antagonism  between 
Shakespeare's  drama  and  the  modem 
stage.     M.  Emile  Mont^gut  has  gone 


360 


''Hamlet''  and  the  Mode'i^n  Stage. 


still  further  on  this  path  (Essais  8ur  la 
Litterature  Anglciise,  1883),  and  no 
Englishman  will  refuse  to  listen  to 
the  author  of  what  is,  I  believe, 
universally  allowed  to  be  the  best 
translation  of  Shakespeare's  plays  in 
any  tongue.  A  version  of  Macbeth 
was  being  at  that  time  played  in  Paris 
with  certain  omissions  and  alterations, 
which  the  critic  acknowledged  to  have 
been  intelligently  and  sjtilfully  made. 
Yet  the  general  impression,  not  on  him 
alone,  but  on  others  who  shared  his 
enthusiasm  for  the  English  dramatist, 
was  one  of  disappointment ;  and  he 
was  forced  to  agree  with  Goethe  that 
"  Shakespeare  is  too  great  a  poet  not 
to  lose  much  in  the  theatre." 

When  you  read  Shakespeare  lie  is  the 
greatest  of  poets  ;  when  you  see  his  work 
acted,  he  is  only  the  first  of  playwrights. 
True,   the    eflect   is   very  powerful  ;    so 
powerful  that  you  forget  for  the  moment 
the  beauty  of  the  language,  the  prodigious 
depth  and  range  of  the  characters,  you  see 
omy  strange  and  terrible  deeds.  .  .  .  The 
tramp  of  feet,  the  clash  of  arms,  the  tolling 
of  bells,  all  tend  to  diminish  the  beauty 
of  the  words,  to  dull  the  colour  of  the 
imagery.  .  .  .  [Yet  he  urges  that  Shake- 
speare's plays  should  be  acted.]     But  on 
this  condition,  that  it  is  clearly  under- 
stood beforehand  what  he  loses  by  it,  and 
how  inferior  in  value  even  is  what  is 
left.     When   one  truly  knows  the   great 
poet,  when  by  reading  his  works,  one  has 
gone  through  all  the  poetic  and  philoso- 
phical feelings  of  the  imagination,  then  it 
is  interesting,  and  after  all  right  that  one 
should  wish  to  learn  what  are  the  purely 
physical   emotions   the    acted    scene   can 
give.     But  thov^e  who  know  the  poet  only 
in  the  theatre,  carry  away  with  them  the 
most  false  and  narrow  idea  of  his  work, 
for  they  carry  away  with  lliem,  let  me  say 
again  the  idea  not  of  the  greatest  of  poets, 
but  of  the  greatest  of  playwrights. 

The  actor  plays  in  some  sort  the  part 
of  commentator  on  the  poet.  And 
thus  M.  Montegut's  words  remind  us 
of  that  passage  from  Johnson's  Preface, 
which  should  be  printed  in  the  fore- 
front of  every  edition  of  the  plays. 

Let  him  that  is  yet  unacquainted  with 
the  powers  of  Shakespeare,  and  who  desires 
to  feel  tlie  highest  pleasure  that  the  drama 


can  give,  read  every  play  from  the  first 
scene  to  the  last  with  utter  negligence  of 
all  his  commentators.  When  his  fancy  is 
once  on  the  wiug,  let  it  not  stoop  at  cor- 
rection or  explanation.  When  his  atten- 
tion is  strongly  eugaged,  let  it  disdain 
alike  to  turn  aside  to  the  name  of  Theobald 
and  of  Pope.  Let  him  read  on  through 
brightness  and  obscurity^  through  integrity 
and  corruption  ;  let  him  preserve  his  com- 
prehension of  the  dialogue  and  his  interest 
m  the  fable.  And  when  the  pleasures  of 
novelty  have  ceased,  let  him  attempt 
exactness,  and  read  the  commentators. 

But  we  need  not  rely  on  books  alone. 
Fortunately  we  can  call  a  living  wit- 
ness, and  an  important  one.  We 
have  all  been  to  see  Mr.  Tree's 
Hamlet,  and  have  all  found  many 
qualities  to  praise  in  it.  Even 
those  who  have  praised  it  most  coldly 
have  allowed  it  to  be  intelligent.  It 
is  indeed  difficult  to  conceive  a  party 
out  of  Shakespeare's  or  anybody's 
plays,  in  which  Mr.  Tree  would  be 
otherwise  than  intelligent.  No  more 
genuine  actor  treads  our  stage.  He 
plays  every  character  differently,  and 
the  difference,  as  will  often  be  the  case 
with  clever  actors,  comes  not  merely 
from  the  completeness  and  variety  of 
his  disguises ;  it  comes  from  within. 
This  is  one  of  the  highest  accomplish- 
ments in  the  actor's  power,  and  one  of 
the  rarest.  That  it  belongs  to  Mr.  Tree 
every  one  will  acknowledge  who  saw 
how  marvellously  he  could  transform 
himself  into  two  such  diametrically 
opposite  characters  as  Beau  Austin 
and  the  Italian  scoundrel  Macari  in 
Called  Bach.  I  saw  him  play  the  two 
parts  within  the  space  of  a  few  days^ 
and  never  have  I  seen  a  more  marvel- 
lous transformation. 

But  after  all  no  actor,  who  was 
worth  anything,  could  fail  to  be  intelli- 
gent as  Hamlet.  He  has  but  to  master 
the  text — so  much  of  it,  at  least,  as  be 
is  permitted  to  speak — and  to  pro- 
nounce it  distinctly.  He  has,  in  short, 
but  to  be  intelligible  to  be  intelligent. 
Mr.  Tree  was  much  more  than  this. 
For  one  thing, — an  essential  but  not 
an  inevitable  thing — ^his  Hamlet  was 
a   courtly   and   well-bred    gentleman. 


"  Hamlet "  and  the  Modern  Stage, 


36]i 


J  iamb,  if  in  the  vein  in  which  he  wrote 
his  essay,  would  perhaps  have  thought 
that  he  was  something  too  intolerant 
in  his  scorn  of  Polonius  in  the  secorid 
act,  and  that  in   the  third  he  rated 
( )phelia  too  roundly.     But  it  must  be 
remembered  that   both  these   actions 
are  a  part  of  his  assumed  character. 
Jt  is  the  real  Hamlet  who  says  to  the 
player,  "  Follow  that  lord,  and  look 
you   mock    him   not,"   an   injunction 
into  which   Mr.  Tree  threw  a  proper 
tone  of  courtesy  and  good  feeling.     A 
more  valid  objection  might  be  made 
to  the  attitude  in  which  he  composes 
the   speech   which   is   to   "  catch  the 
conscience   of    the   King,"    squatting 
down  in  the  firelight  after  a  slightly 
grotesque  fashion.     But  on  the  whole 
the  general  verdict  must  be  that  this 
Prince  of  Denmark  was  a  gentleman. 
He  has  been  called  monotonous,  but  it 
is  not  easy  to  see  how  the  shorn  and 
parcelled  Hamlet  of  our  theatre  can  be 
otherwise  than  monotonous.     He  can 
be  loud  when  he  scolds  Ophelia;  he 
can  tear  his  passion  to  tatters  at  the 
close  of  the  play-scene  when  he  sinks 
on  the  seat  from  which  the  King  has 
just  fled  "frighted  with  false  fire"; 
he  can  carry  it  in  the  true  Ercles*  vein 
when  he  matches  his  grief  with  Laertes 
over  the  open  grave.     But  a  character 
of  sentiment  rather  than  action,  infirm 
of  purpose,  vacillating,  dilatory,  must 
inevitably  increase  its  natural  bent  to 
monotony  when  presented  under  con- 
ilitions  which  preclude  it  from  showing 
the  principal  efforts  it  makes  to  throw 
off  its  native  irresolution,  and  conceal 
moreover  the  chief   causes   which   at 
last     drive     that     irresolution      into 
action.       Some    part     of    this    objec- 
tion   moreover    may    arise  from    Mr. 
Tree's       inability     to     speak      blank 
ver.^e.      He    is    always    distinct  :    his 
jnoiiunciation    is     always    clear    and 
unaffected  ;  but  he  has   not  mastered 
the  rhythm  or  the  cadence  of  Shake- 
s[)eare's  iambics.     The  prose  is  always 
well  delivered,  with  good  understand- 
ing,   enunciation,    and    emphasis.     So 
much  one  would  have  looked  for  from 
Mr.   Tree  ;    to   look    for   an   equally 


perfect  delivery  of  the  poetry  would 
perhaps  have  been  unreasonable.  His 
training  has  hardly  lain  this  way,  and 
the  gift  will  not  come  by  instinct 
alone.  Let  it  be  accounted  then 
for  his  misfortune  rather  than  his 
fault.  Yet  it  is  indeed  a  misfortune, 
the  one  signal  defect,  in  my  poor 
judgment,  of  an  excellent  performance. 
And  here  one  could  not  but  note  how 
much  after  all  there  is  in  a  name. 
How  admirably  did  Mr.  Kemble  speak 
Polonius'  famous  speech.  True,  the 
lines  put  in  his  mouth  have  not 
the  high  quality  of  Hamlet's  famous 
soliloquies. 

Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  expressed  in  fancy  ;    rich,  not 

gaudy  ; 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man. 

To  speak  such  lines  well  is  one  thing  ;. 
it  is  another  and  a  very  different  thing 
to  master  all  the  solemn  music,  the  in- 
tolerable pathos  of  these  : 

But  that  the   dread  of  something  after 

death, 
The   undiscover'd    coimtry    from  whose 

bourn 
No  traveller  returns. 

Yet  this  detracts  no  jot  from  Mr. 
Kemble' s  praise.  What  it  was  his 
business  to  do  could  not  have  been 
done  better. 

Hamlet  is  a  long  play;  unless  one 
followed  the  actors  book  in  hand,  or 
was  blessed  with  Macaulay's  memory  ,^ 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  precisely  how 
muc^h  has  been  cut  out  of  it  at  the 
BLaymarket.  But  much  has  certainly 
gone.  As  plays  are  now  set  upon  the 
stage  much  had  to  go.  Even  on  this 
fragment  of  Hamlet  the  curtain  did 
not  fall  till  close  upon  midnight. 
How  much  of  it  is  likely  to  be  left  if 
Mr.  Herkomer's  theories  of  scenic 
art  ai'e  pushed  into  practice,  is  matter 
for  reflection.  At  a  recent  sitting  of 
the.  ijabour  Commission  a  represen- 
tative of  the  Dockers'  Union  was 
examined  on  his  views  of  the  Eight 
Hours'  Day.  He  opined  that  it  would 
absorb  all  the  unemployed.  But,  he 
was  asked,  if  he  found  that  in  a  few 


362 


**  Hamlet'^  and  the  Modern  Stage. 


years  a  fresh  crop  of  unemployed  had 
sprung  up,  would  he  advocate  a  further 
reduction  in  the  hours  of  labour  1 
Undoubtedly,  he  answered.  At  this 
rate  we  should  soon  be  in  the  blessed 
enjoyment  of  a  No  Hours'  Day.  It 
seems  not  impossible  that  under  Mr. 
Herkomer's  rule  the  actor's  occupation 
would  vanish  altogether,  and  we  should 
sit  in  our  stalls  merely  to  applaud  the 
scene-painter  and  the  carpenter ;  to  be 
sure  they  already  play  the  most  im- 
portant parts  at  some  of  our  theatres. 
It  must  be  said,  however,  that  Mr. 
Tree  pushes  this  concession  to  the 
popular  taste  (as  it  is  called,  though 
perhaps  not  always  truly  called)  much 
less  extravagantly  than  some  of  his 
fellows.  He  has  followed  the  advice 
of  Polonius  and  been  rich,  not  gaudy, 
in  his  decorations.  His  stage  is  not 
over-burdened  with  that  Asiatic  pomp 
through  which  the  actors  move  as 
"  a  rivulet  of  text  meanders  through 
a  meadow  of  margin."  His  scenes 
are  in  good  keeping  and  sufficient. 
One  of  them  is  especially  striking.  I 
do  not  remember  to  have  ever  seen 
upon  the  stage  a  more  effective  picture 
than  the  scene  on  the  ramparts  where 
Hamlet  holds  his  colloquy  with  the 
Ghost. 

Yet  for  all  Mr.  Tree's  good  sense 
and  moderation  he  was  inevitably 
forced  to  make  his  choice  between 
Shakespeare  and  the  scene  -  painter, 
and  as  usual  Shakespeare  had  to  go 
to  the  wall.  And  here  we  are  brought 
face  to  face  with  Lamb's  contention : 
"  I  am  not  arguing  that  Hamlet  should 
not  be  acted,  but  how  much  Hamlet  is 
made  another  thing  by  being  acted.'' 
It  is  true  that  Lamb  did  not  press 
that  side  of  it  which  to  me  seems  at 
the  present  time  most  significant. 
He  only  incidentally  touched  on  it  by 
reprobating  the  "ribald  trash  "  which 
Dryden,  Gibber,  Tate,  and  others  had 
foisted  into  Shakespeare.  Still  the 
side  is  there,  and  it  should  not  be 
ignored.  We  have,  it  is  true,  cleared 
away  the  "  ribald  trash."  But  how 
much  of  the  true  Shakespeare  has 
gone  with  it  ? 


Of  all  the  plays  Hamlet  suffers  most 
by  this  paring  and  shaping  process. 
In  others  we  may  lose  some  beautiful 
passages  of  poetry,  some  amusing 
sallies  of  humour,  some  exquisite 
touches  of  human  nature.  But  in 
Hamlet  it  appears  to  have  been  or- 
dained by  the  traditions  of  the  modern 
stage  that  we  shall  lose  the  very  parts 
essential  to  complete,  as  one  may  say, 
the  incompleteness  of  the  character. 
From  the  version  now  played  at  the 
Hay  market,  and  in  all  the  versions 
that  I  can  remember,  the  fourth 
scene  of  the  fourth  act  has  been  cut 
out.  Yet  this  scene  is  really  more  vital 
to  the  right  understanding  of  Hamlet's 
character  than  any  other  in  the  play  ; 
it  is  hardly  an  exaggeration  to  say 
that  the  famous  soliloquies  in  the 
first  three  acts  might  go  with  less  loss 
to  it  than  the  soliloquy  which  closes 
this  scene.  It  is  the  one  which  shows 
him  most  conscious  of  his  own  weak- 
ness, taxing  himself  with  it,  trying  to 
reason  himself  out  of  it,  trying  to 
screw  his  courage  to  the  sticking-plaee^ 
and  yet  still  content  to  drift  on  the 
tide  of  events,  still  consoling  himself 
with  the  thought  that  the  man  shall 
be  ready  when  the  moment  comes,  still 
doing  nothing  to  help  that  moment  on. 

While  on  his  way  to  take  ship 
for  England,  Hamlet  meets  Fortinbras 
at  the  head  of  the  Norwegian  army. 
He  asks  of  one  of  the  captains  whose 
powers  they  are  and  against  whom 
they  march,  and  learns  that  they  go 
to  fight  for  sheer  honour's  sake  against 
Poland  for  a  little  patch  of  ground 
not  worth  five  ducats.  The  Pole,  he 
says,  will  surely  never  fight  for  such 
a  straw,  and  is  told  that  they  are 
already  in  arms.  Then,  when  once 
more  alone,  he  breaks  forth — 

How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me. 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge  !    What  is  a 

man, 
If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  ?    A  beast,  no 

more. 
Sure,  he  that  made  us  with  such  large 

discourse, 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 


''  Hamlet "  and  the  Modern  Stage. 


363 


That  capability  and  god-like  reason 
To  fust  in  us  unused.    Now  whether  it  be 
Bestial  oblivion,  or  some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event, 
A  thought  which,  quarter'd,  hath  but  one 

part  wisdom 
And  ever  three  parts  coward,  I   do  not 

know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say  "This  thing's  to 

do  ;" 
Sith  I  have  cause  and  will  and  strength 

and  means 
To  do 't.     Examples  gross  as  earth  exhort 

me : 
Witness  this    army    of    such    mass    and 

charge 
Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince, 
Whose  spirit  with  divine  ambition  puflFM 
Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event, 
Expressing  what  is  mortal  and  unsure 
To  all  that  fortune,   death,   and   danger 

dare, 
Even  for   an  egg-shell.      Rightly  to  be 

great 
Is  not  to  stir  without  great  argument. 
But  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw 
When  honour's  at  the  stake.    How  stand  I 

then, 
That  have  a  father  kill'd,  a  mother  stain'd, 
Excitements  of  my  reason  and  my  blood. 
And  let  all  sleep  ?    While,  to  my  shame, 

I  see 
The  imminent  death  of  twenty  thousand 

men, 
That,  for  a  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame, 
Go  to  their  graves  like  beds,  fight  for  a 

plot 
AVnereon   the    numbers    cannot    try  the 

cause, 
Which  is  not  tomb  enough  and  continent 
To  hide  the   slain  ?     0,  from   this  time 

forth, 
My  thoughts  be   bloody,  or  be    nothing 

worth ! 

And  yet  they  are  worth  nothing.  It 
is  not  till  (his  "fears  forgetting 
manners")  he  breaks  the  seal  of  his 
companions'  commission  and  learns 
the  King's  intended  treachery  against 
himself,  that  he  takes  action.  Even 
then  it  is  only  by  a  fortuitous  con- 
course of  circumstances,  in  which  he 
has  no  hand,  that  the  opportunity  for 
action  comes.  All  this,  too,  disappears 
from  our  stage-versions  of  the  play ; 
it  disappears  at  least  from  Mr.  'Tree's 
version.  By  removing  the  second  scene 
of  the  fifth  act,  in  which  Hamlet  ex- 
plains   to    Horatio  what    has    passed 


during  his  brief  voyage,  and  appeals  to 
him  whether  the  cup  of  the  filing's  trea- 
chery be  not  now  full,  the  unfortunate 
spectator,  who  has  been  commanded  to 
discard  what  the  text  might  teach 
him  in  favour  of  its  interpretation  as 
"developed  in  hundreds  of  years  by 
the  members  of  a  studious  and  enthu- 
siastic profession,"  is  plunged  yet 
deeper  into  darkness.  It  once  fell  to 
Matthew  Arnold's  lot,  in  his  character 
of  "An  Old  Playgoer,"  to  review  a 
performance  of  Hamlet  He  found  it 
"  a  tantalizing  and  ineffective  play," 
its  opening  "  simple  and  admirable," 
but — "  The  rest  is  puzzle  !  "  Puzzle 
indeed,  when  treated  in  this  fashion. 
Shakespeare  conceived  this  play,  so 
thought  Mr.  Arnold, — 

With  his  mind  running  on  Montaigne, 
and  placed  its  action  and  its  hero  in  Mon- 
taigne's atmosphere  and  world.  What  is 
that  world  ?  It  is  the  world  of  man 
viewed  as  a  being  ondoyant  et  divers, 
balancing  and  indeterminate,  the  plaything 
of  cross  motives  and  shifting  impulses, 
swayed  by  a  thousand  subtle  influences, 
physiological  and  pathological.  Certainly 
the  action  and  hero  of  the  original  Hamlet- 
story  are  not  such  as  to  compel  the  poet 
to  place  them  in  this  world  and  no  other  ; 
but  they  admit  of  being  placed  there, 
Shakespeare  resolved  to  place  them  there, 
and  they  lent  themselves  to  his  resolve. 
The  resolve  once  taken  to  place  the  action 
in  this  world  of  problem  became  bright- 
ened by  all  the  force  of  Shakespeare's 
faculties,  of  Shakespeare's  subtlety.  Hamlet 
thus  comes  to  be  not  a  drama  followed 
with  perfect  comprehension  and  pro- 
foundest  emotion,  which  is  the  ideal  for 
tragedy,  but  a  problem  soliciting  inter- 
pretation and  solution. 

Hamlet  has  indeed  not  the  stability 
and  coherence  of  Othello  or  Macbeth, 
It  has  too  much  of  reflection,  too  little 
of  action.  Even  when  carefully  read 
there  is  something  wanting.  The 
reader  feels  the  force  of  Mr.  Aj-nold's 
words  that  it  is  rather  a  problem  to  be 
solved  than  a  drama  to  be  followed  ; 
and  the  problem,  being,  in  fact,  man's 
relations  to  the  world  in  which  he  is 
placed,  can  never  be  finally  solved. 
A  tantalizing  play  it  must  always 
then  in  some    sort    be   even   to   the 


364 


*'  Hamlet  **  and  the  Modern  Stage. 


reader,  yet  surely  not  ineffective.  Its 
ineffectiveness  comes  when  we  see  it 
played  in  fragments.  Tlie  character 
of  Hamlet  is  the  play.  When  that 
character  is  shown  incompletely  by 
omitting  the  parts  most  essential  to 
its  understanding,  the  play  must  neces- 
sarily remain  ineffective.  Our  acting 
versions,  in  short,  come  near  to  realize 
the  old  jest  of  the  playbill  which, 
according  to  Sir  Walter,  announced 
the  tragedy  of  Hamlet  with  the  char- 
acter of  the  Prince  of  Denmark  left 
out. 

The  causes  which  influence  a  mana- 
ger's decision  in  such  matters  can 
never  be  fully  known  to  the  spectator. 
It  is  only  just  to  Mr.  Tree's  experience 
and  capacity  to  suppose  that  he  had 
reasons  which  to  him  at  least  seemed 
sufficient  for  what  he  has  done.  At 
least  he  has  followed  tradition,  and 
tradition  must  always  count  for  much 
in  the  theatre.  He  seems  indeed  to 
have  departed  from  it  on  the  first 
night  by  speaking  the  soliloquy  I  have 


quoted,  though  he  spoke  it  out  of  its 
place,  somewhere,  as  I  hear,  in  the  third 
act.  But  he  seems  also  to  have  soon  re- 
pented even  of  this  departure  from 
tradition.  It  is  vain  to  consider  how 
the  play  might  be  shortened  more 
judiciously.  Polonius'  speech  to  his 
son,  Hamlet's  counsel  to  the  players 
— these  are  less  relevant  to  the  evo- 
lution of  the  piece  than  the  scenes 
now  omitted.  Yet  who  would  wish 
them  away?  The  mad  scene, — pro- 
foundly painful  always  on  thei  stage, 
however  well  played,  —  was  perhaps 
somewhat  needlessly  prolonged.  But 
its  curtailment,  its  omission  even, 
would  give  but  small  relief.  The 
truth  remains  that  the  play,  to  be 
acted  at  all  under  the  present  condi- 
tions of  our  theatre,  cannot  be  acted 
as  Shakespeare  wrote  it.  Is  it  then 
a  paradox  to  argue  "  how  much  Ham%- 
let  is  made  another  thing  by  being 
acted?" 

MOWBBAY   MOBBIS. 


365 


UP  THE  GERSCHNI  ALP. 


I. 

This  is  the  way  that  you  must  go. 

Where  no  stray  sunbeam,  slantwise  thrown, 
The  twilight  gilds  with  vaporous  glow, 

Through  woods  dim,  dreamlike,  hushed  and  lone, 
The  pathway  serpents  to  and  fro. 
Fair  is  the  green  roof  overhead 

Which  rises  with  you  as  you  rise. 

And  green  upon  the  slope  that  lies 
Above  you  and  beneath  is  spread 
A  fairy  tangle,  ivy,  fern, 

Seedlings,  and  mosses  of  untold 

Luxuriance  flaming  into  gold. 
And  sometimes  at  the  zigzag's  turn 
A  wayside  shrine  in  miniature, 

Picture  or  image  blest,  behind 

A  rusted  grating  niched  you  find. 
The  monks  of  Engelberg  would  lure 

Your  vagrant  thoughts  to  Paradise; 

And,  sure,  not  far  from  here  it  lies. 
And  now  some  lucent  streamlet's  gush 

Into  its  brimming  trough,  and  now 

The  sudden  snapping  of  a  bough, 
Is  all  that  breaks  the  breathless  hush. 

If — if  you  were  not  quite  alone  ! 

The  morn,  the  woods,  were  twice  as  sweet 

If  just  one  other  pair  of  feet 
Were  climbing  here  beside  your  own  I 


ir. 

This  is  the  way  that  you  must  go. 
Across  the  rolling  pastures  wide, 

Where  Alpine  thistles,  nestling  low, 
And  clustered  gentians,  in  the  pride 

And  splendour  of  their  purple,  blow ; 

And  all  the  exquisite  pure  air 

With  tinkling  cowbells,  chiming  clear 
Their  homely  chorus  to  the  ear. 

Is  garrulous;  and  everywhere 

Riots  and  laughs  the  sunshine  bold. 
You  loiter  at  the  water-trough 
And  make  a  mountain  toilet,  doff 

Your  hat  and  dip  your  face,  and  hold 


366  Up  the  Gerschni  Alp. 

Youi'  inside  wrist  upturned  to  meet 
The  crystal,  cool,  refreshing  flow 
That  gurgles  from  the  pipe,  and  so 

Through  all  your  veins  allay  the  heat. 
Then,  strenuous,  charge  the  sheer  ascent ; 
Which  won  you  pause,  elate  though  spent. 

Deep,  deep  lies  Engelberg !  but  note — 
TitUs,  that  wears  his  hood  of  snow 
In  one  great  wimple  on  his  brow. 

Soars  for  your  toil  scarce  less  remote. 

If — if  some  other  paused  here  too  ! 

How  fair  these  summits  and  these  skies, 
If  just  one  other  pair  of  eyes 

Were  gazing  at  them  now  with  you  ! 


III. 

This  is  the  way  that  you  must  go. 

The  torrent  with  the  iris  sheen. 
Faint  where  its  thunderous  waters  grow 

A  sleeping   foam-mist,  to  be  seen 
Spanning  its  base  a  vivid  bow, 
Must  not  deflect  your  steps,  nor  yet 

The  lakelet  in  the  mountain's  lap ; 

Kor  the  white  hostel,  as  might  hap. 
Tempt  them  to  tarry  and  forget. 
A  summit  nearer  heaven  than  this 

Invites  you.     Up !     Each  height  attained 

Shows  one  yet  loftier  to  be  gained ; 
Till  lo !  a  reeling  precipice. 
Whence — if  your  sight  with  space  can  cope — 

As  on  a  cloud  the   lake  of  all 

The  four   Cantons  mapped  faint  and  small. 
Here,  on  the  green  and  sunny  slope 

Beside  the  brink,  you  rest,  and  .bless 

The  gods  for  all  the  loveliness 
Which  haunts  these  solitudes  divine  ; 

Rest  and  rejoice ! — the  day  is  long. 

And  life  is  an  Olympian  song  ! 
How  pure  the  snows  on  Titlis  shine  ! 


If — if  with  rapture  not  less  keen 
Some  other  heart  exultant  swelled  ! 
If  just  one  friend  of  friends  beheld 

The  perfect  hour,   the  perfect  scene ! 


E.  C. 


367 


HOURS    OF    LABOUR. 

(originally   delivered   as  a   lecture.) 


A  FEW  years  ago  one  of  several 
meetings  was  held  at  the  Mansion 
House  in  support  of  the  People's 
Palace,  and  Professor  Huxley  was  one 
of  the  selected  speakers.  He  had  in 
his  medical  youth  been  familiar  with 
a  suburb  of  London,  near  the  Tsle  of 
Dogs.  It  is  a  dead,  monotonous  level 
of  poor  houses,  tenanted  by  obscure 
toilers  engaged  every  day  in  a  repeated 
round  of  commonplace  labour.  Since 
then  he  had  been  far  and  wide  about 
the  world,  seeing  many  varieties  of  ab- 
original heathen  life  ;  and  he  said  with 
deliberate  distinctness,  that  he  would 
rather  be  an  uneducated  savage,  free 
to  roam  where  he  would,  than  dwell, 
occupied  with  continuous  and  unin- 
teresting work,  in  that  London  region, 
the  wearisome  dulness  of  which  he 
could  never  forget,  however  much  he 
had  seen  since. 

I  cannot  recall  his  exact  words,  but 
this  was  wliat  they  said,  and  they  ob- 
viously made  a  deep  impression  on  the 
large  assembly  he  addressed.  I  have 
often  remembered  them  myself,  while 
thinking  of  the  slavery  of  civilisation, 
and  the  lot  to  which  it  has  consigned 
so  many  in  this  favoured  land.  No 
doubt  mucli  may  be  said  to  mitigate 
the  awful ness  of  the  Professor's  sent- 
ence. Let  alone  the  influences  of 
religion,  there  are  veins  of  cultivated 
interest,  and  touches  of  a  higher 
human  life  to  be  found  under  its  most 
degraded  conditions.  And  toil  which 
may  seem  to  some  of  us  miserably  dis- 
mal and  dark,  such  as  that  of  the  miner 
who  spt^nds  his  working  life  in  low  cav- 
erns of  dirty  (toal  far  beneath  our  feet, 
has  alleviations  of  which  the  ignorant 
savage  has  no  idea.  The  diggers  in 
the  lowest  pit  have  their  homes  above. 
Many  a  one  among  them  is  a  man  of 


notable  intelligence.  He  reads  his 
newspaper,  and  enjoys  the  conscious- 
ness of  exercising  political  rights.  He 
is  a  citizen,  protected  by  law,  and  in 
touch  with  the  social  movements  of 
mankind. 

Take,  indeed,  any  class,  the  duration 
of  whose  daily  labour  now  provides  a 
question  which  is  one  of  the  prominent 
signs  of  our  times,  and  we  see,  at  once, 
that  Professor  Huxley's  saying  is  the 
grim  caricature  of  a  reality.  In  no 
circumstances  would  he  himself  relish 
the  life  of  a  savage.  And  yet  there 
is  a  depressing  and  sombre  truth  at 
the  bottom  of  his  words.  This  is  no- 
where more  notable  than  in  the  pic- 
ture of  man  shown  by  the  Scriptures, 
Take  it  as  an  allegory,  if  you  like, 
conveying  a  truth.  I  am  not  insist- 
ing on  the  literal  historical  accuracy 
of  all  we  find  in  the  Pentateuch.  I  take 
the  grand  lesson  that  it  teaches  about 
the  true  position  of  man.  Adam,  as 
there  represented  to  us,  appears  as 
in  conscious  communion  with  God, 
that  is  to  say,  widely  unlike  what 
we  now  understand  by  the  heathen.  He 
then  falls  from  his  high  estate,  and 
begins  the  life  which  stretches  on  from 
that  time.  He  enters  the  era  in 
which  we  live,  presenting  the  marked 
contrasts  which  man  exhibits  to-day. 
And  the  first  sentence  pronounced  on 
him  is  that "  By  the  sweat  of  his  face  " 
he  should  eat  bread.  "  In  sorrow 
shalt  thou  eat "  ;  he  is  born  to  that  as 
the  sparks  fly  upwards.  That  is  the 
tone  in  which  he  and  his  toil  are 
spoken  of  throughout  the  Bible ;  "  Man 
goeth  forth  unto  his  work  and  to  his 
labour  until  the  evening."  But  when 
later  on  he  receives  the  great  moral 
laws  of  God,  in  that  one  which  refers 
expressly  to  the  duties  of   his   daily 


368 


Hours  of  Lahour, 


life,  divine  provision  is  made  for  a 
break  in  what  would  seem  to  have 
otherwise  threatened  a  life  of  wholly 
unbroken  toil.  Much  is  allotted  for 
him  to  undergo.  The  sentence  runs, 
"  Six  days  shalt  thou  laboiu* "  ;  but 
there  is  one  day  out  of  the  seven 
which  God  blesses,  and  that  is  the  day 
of  rest.  The  necessity  of  labour  is 
laid  upon  the  human  race.  Man  is 
herein  separated  from  the  residue  of 
the  creation.  "  If  any  man  will 
not  work,"  says  St.  Paul,  **  neither 
shall  he  eat."  He  thus  gives  utter- 
ance to  a  truth  having  a  far  wider 
application  than  the  conditions  of  the 
particular  case  before  him  involved. 
We  have  a  glimpse  of  a  great  pervad- 
ing law. 

Far  otherwise  is  it  with  the  living 
animals  around  us.  "Behold,"  says 
Jesus,  "  the  fowls  of  the  air  ;  for  they 
sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap,  nor 
gather  into  barns,  and  yet  your 
heavenly  Father  feedeth  them."  Few, 
I  imagine,  can  help  being  struck  by 
the  immunity  of  what  we  idly  call 
"  the  dumb  creation  "  from  the  burden 
of  toil.  They  know  nothing  of  its 
imperative  wearisomeness  till  they  are 
captured  and  drawn  within  the  in- 
fluences of  civilisation.  The  beaver 
makes  its  dam  of  clay  without  the 
insistent  supervision  of  an  architect 
or  foreman  of  the  works  ;  we  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  it  knows  what 
it  is  to  be  tired  ;  it  has  no  contract  to 
fulfil.  The  bird,  exempt  from  pressing 
human  directions,  is  free  to  build  its 
nest  at  its  own  time,  and,  being  in  no 
danger  of  becoming  overworn  by 
fatigue,  is  at  liberty  to  busy  itself  with 
its  little  sticks  and  straws  and  feathers, 
even  on  the  Sabbath.  God  has  pro- 
vided that  it  shall  never  come  to  be 
overworked.  Such  provision  is  made 
for  man  alone ;  and  also,  let  it  be 
added,  for  those  animals  which  man 
has  taken  from  their  natural  state  to 
minister  to  his  own  needs. 

Though  we  hear  an  apostle  say,  "The 
whole  creation  groaneth  and  travaileth 
in  pain  together,"  and  though  this  pro- 
found utterance  no  doubt  points  to  the 


development  of  a  better  world  in 
which  pain  and  sorrow  shall  be  no 
longer  needed  in  the  education  of  the 
sons  of  God,  the  simpler  animals,  who 
share  the  sunshine  and  products  of  the 
earth  with  us,  are  seen  to  employ,  or 
disport,  themselves  with  a  freedom 
from  the  imperative  demands  made 
upon  man,  and  from  which  only  a  few 
are  partially  exempt.  Rich  people  are 
able  to  escape  from  the  cold  of  our 
winter  by  going  to  the  south  of  France 
or  elsewhere ;  but  the  poorest  swallow 
flits  to  sunny  climes  so  soon  as  it 
feels  the  touch  of  chill  October.  The 
lark,  on  the  busiest  working  day, 
sings  above  the  toiling  men  and  horses 
in  the  field.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  one 
in  a  cage  ;  I  think  of  the  psalniy 
"They  that  led  us  away  captive  re- 
quired of  us  then  a  song,  and  melody 
in  our  heaviness."  People  who  are 
fond  of  putting  texts  about  their 
rooms,  might  ask  themselves  how  this 
would  read  if  hung  over  a  prison  of 
those  singing  bii-ds  which  are  by 
nature  free. 

It  is  in  the  comparative,  or  partial 
resemblance  of  his  way  of  life  to  that 
of  the  lower  animals,  that  the  naked 
savage,  roaming  at  his  will  over  an 
uncultivated  soil,  has  suggested  a  de- 
sirable contrast  to  the  toiler  flxed,  or 
tied,  by  civilised  obligations  to  the 
same  monotonous  round  of  lifelong 
necessitous  laboiu*.  And  though  the 
features  of  such  a  comparison  may  be 
so  exaggerated  as  to  startle  us,  it  at 
least  brings  vividly  before  the  mind  a 
picture  of  that  unlovely  and  wearisome 
life  which  is  led  by  many  of  our 
fellows. 

No  doubt  there  is  a  necessity  for 
the  discharge  of  dull  and  commonplace 
duties.  As  the  old  Arab  proverb  has 
it,  "  If  I  am  master,  and  thou  art 
master,  who  shall  drive  the  asses  %  " 
It  is  toilsome  to  make  bricks,  even 
with  straw.  I  do  not  think,  however, 
that  people  of  leisure,  who  (within 
recognised  limits)  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ing when  they  like,  and  if  they  feel 
indisposed  have  no  difficulty  in  keeping 
their   beds  for  a  day,  always  realise 


Hours  of  Zahottr. 


369 


the  imperative  nature  of  duties  which 
oblige  a  man  or  woman  to  begin  them 
daily  at  an  early  hour,  be  it  light  or 
dark,  and,  if  the  frost  be  sharp,  find 
no  lire  to  greet  them  when  they  leave 
their  rooms.     In  most  cases,  moreover, 
a  workman  has  to  quit  his  house  as 
well   as    his    chamber,   and,    be    the 
weather  fair  or  foul,  must  be  at  his 
post  at   a   certain    time.      The   barn- 
door has  to  be  opened,  and  the  horses 
have  to  be  fed.     Or  the  engine  of  the 
goods-train  has  to  be  made  ready,  at 
the    risk    of    the   stoker's    losing   his 
character    or   place.      The    nature   of 
much  other  out-of-door   work,  too,  en- 
forces punctual  and  repeated  exposure 
to  disagreeable  conditions  which  the 
man  of  means  evades.     If  the  rain  is 
falling,  he  simply  drives  to  his  office 
and  does  not  miss  the  expenditure  of 
a  shilling.     But  if  he  had  looked  out 
of  his  window  at  about  six  o'clock  he 
might  have  seen  men  trudging  along 
the  wet  street  on  their  way  to  their 
daily  work.     When  (to  take  another 
illustration)    a    sleeper,  warm   in   his 
bed,  is  awakened   by  a  gust   of  sleet 
against  his  chamber  window,  does  he 
always  think  of  the  man  at  the  wheel 
of  a  collier  beating  up  the  Channel, 
'     or  how  it  may  be  causing  all  hands  to 
turn  up  to  shorten  sail  in  the  middle  of 
the  stormy  night  ?    Of  course  all  these 
duties,  on  shore  and  afloat,  have  to  be 
done.     They  aie  the  accompaniments 
of  civilisation.     Unless  they  were  dis- 
charged, the  necessities  of  our  modern 
life  would   be  unattended  to,  and  its 
comforts  would  be  unobtainable.     The 
richest  person  would  have  no  house  to 
live   in,  and  no  coal    to    burn.      The 
millions  in  a  city  would  be  unfed,  and 
without  the  wage  which  brings  their 
daily  bread. 

We  must  not  be  surprised,  however, 
at  finding  that  questions  about  the 
liours  to  be  spent  in  labour  by  the 
million  are  moving  thoughtful  society 
and  the  Legislature.  They  are  being 
put,  not  merely  by  the  independent 
educated  who  are  concerned  in  these 
matters,  but  f)y  the  masses  (as  we  call 
them)  themselves.  This  is,  obviously, 
No.  381). — VOL.  Lxv. 


one  result  of  extended  elementary  edu- 
cation. The  labour  problem  is  pre- 
senting itself  to  the  labourer  in  a  social 
and  political,  no  longer  in  a  smcall 
personal  aspect.  He  reads  and  hears 
that  it  is  drawing  keen  public  atten- 
tion. It  exercises  a  distinguished 
Commission,  which  examines  witnesses 
from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom,  and  the 
result  of  their  inquiries  is  common 
property.  All  may  know  what  is  being 
said. 

Meanwhile  the  workman  himself  is 
casting  about  for  some  way  to.  alleviate 
his  toil,  to  shorten  its  hours.  The 
most  intelligent  of  his  class  are  aware 
that  we  have  entered  an  era  in  which 
the  rude,  old-fashionel  methods  of 
manual  work  are  being  modified  or 
replaced  by  mechanical  appliances. 
And  his  attitude  of  subjection  to  in- 
evitable labour  is  being  changed. 

Some  years  ago,  while  staying  at 
San  Francisco,  I  was  invited  to  examine 
a    well-known    school    in    that    city. 
After  I  had  done,  I  half-idly  asked  the 
head-teacher  what  kind  of  work  the 
boys  were   mostly   engaged   in   when 
their  education  was  over.     "  Work  ]  " 
she  replied  (it  was  a  lady,  if  you  please, 
not    a    man).      "  They  don't   work ; 
they    use  their  brains."       We   have 
not    altogether    reached     this     stage 
of    immunity  here,   and  yet  this  au- 
dacious answer  to  my  question  was  a 
straw  in  the  social  and  industrial  wind, 
some  puffs  of  which  have  been  discer- 
nible in  the  atmosphere  of  this  country. 
Everywhere,  more  or  less,  the  mind 
of  the  workman  is  being  moved  with 
expectation  of  some  change,  swift  or 
slow,  which  shall  bring  more  dignity 
to  labour,  and  lessen  the  duration  of 
its  personal  pressure.     We  need  only 
study    the    reports    of     Trade    Con- 
gresses, and   colonial   disquietude,  in 
order  to  realise  that  this  is  one  of  the 
signs  of  the  times. 

One  thing  is  certain.  Manual  toil 
of  some  sort  is  sure  to  survive  ;  there 
will  always  be  a  bottom  rung,  as  well 
as  a  top  one,  to  the  social  ladder.  Call 
them  by  what  name  we  like,  the  world 
makes    use    of     both    servants    and 

B  B 


370 


Hours  of  Labour, 


masters,  and  its  work  has  to  be  done 
by  hands  as  well  as  by  brains.  And 
the  striking  of  a  fair  balance  between 
them  is  a  problem  of  our  day,  which 
the 'Christian,  above  all,  should  desire 
to  approach  righteously. 

In  comparing  mental  with  manual 
labour,  however,   some  contrasts   are 
often   slighted    or    unobserved.      We 
hear  people  talk  of  the  strains  of  in- 
tellectual effort,  the  responsibility  of 
direction,  and  the  burden  of  command. 
Current    experience    incessantly    fur- 
nishes examples  which  show  how  true 
this  is.    People  point  to  these,  and  show 
how  their  incessant  protraction  wears 
men  out  before  theii-  time.     And  then, 
somewhat   contemptuously,  some  ask 
whether    the    relatively    irresponsible 
work  of  the  day-labourer  is  to  be  com- 
pared to  this.     They  forget  that  the 
exercise   of   the   brain   has    a  special 
interest  of  its  own.     I  do  not  say  that 
a    good    carpenter    does    not    feel    a 
pleasure   in    seeing    the   fabric   grow 
under  his  hands.      The  peasant  who 
feeds  and  drives  his  master's  cattle  may 
often  be  heard  to  speak  of  them  as  if 
they  were  his  own.     But  the  real  sense 
of    power,    guidance,    and    direction, 
which  gives  its  special  interest,  and 
often  prospect  of  an  increase  in  gain  to 
the  directing  mind,  is  mostly  denied 
to  the  man  whose  main  business  is  to 
carry  out  the  orders  he  receives.     It  is 
this  which  makes  the  difference  between 
mental  and  manual  labour.    The  brain- 
worker,  too,  is  seldom  subject  to  the 
monotonous  compulsion,  and  punctually 
recurrent    demands    upon    his    time, 
which  the  hand-worker   must  almost 
inevitably  feel.     This,  indeed,  is  indi- 
cated by  the  most  prominent  feature 
which    the   labour   question   is    now 
showing.     It  is  the  duration,  rather 
than  the  nature,  of  manual  toil  which 
at  present  exercises  the  working  man. 
And  we  know  that  for  the  discharge 
of    some    duties,  his    desire  takes   a 
definite    shape.      The    cry,    in    some 
trades,  is  for  a  working  day  of  eight 
hours.     All,  indeed,  admit  that  there 
are   some  posts  the  duties  of   which 
cannot  allow  of  their  discharge  being 


thus  limited.  But  the  chief  question 
now  is  what  the  hours  of  labour  shall 
be,  and  by  what  means  they  shall  be 
determined. 

Let  me  first  say  a  word  on  the  latter 
part  of  the  problem.  I  agree  with 
those  who  look  on  its  uniform  legisla- 
tive settlement  as  endangering  that 
sense  of  individual  responsibility  which 
marks  the  true  grit  of  a  people,  and 
the  rights  of  man.  It  is  probable 
that  in  some  measure  we  owe  a 
popular  desire  for  legislative  inter- 
vention to  the  system  of  compul- 
sory education  which  has  prevailed 
during  the  last  twenty  years.  The 
mind  of  almost  every  working  man 
has  been  familiarised  with,  and  accus- 
tomed to,  the  authority  of  the  Govern- 
ment Inspector.  The  division  of  his 
youthful  day  has  been  decided  by  the 
State.  That  has  settled  the  hours 
during  which  he  shall  learn,  and  it  is 
less  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  should 
look  to  the  same  authority  to  settle 
how  long  he  shall  work. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  labourer  is 
now  exercised  in  defining  the  hours  of 
labour,  either  by  combined  arrange- 
ment with  his  employers,  or  legal  enact- 
ment. And  the  Christian  feels  that 
he  is  gravely  called  upon  to  consider 
the  matter  in  the  light  of  his  faith  or 
creed.  He  is  the  more  conscious  that 
it  thus  concerns  him,  as  he  sees  the 
drift  of  Christian  philanthropy  in  these 
days.  Nothing,  in  its  way,  is  more 
notable  than  the  prevailing  desire  for 
recreation  of  some  sort  which  marks 
many  efforts  made  by  religious  persons 
to  better  the  condition  of  the  working 
people,  especially  among  the  young 
with  whom  they  have  to  do.  The 
Polytechnic  busies  itself  in  the  pro- 
vision of  summer  holidays.  Bible 
classes  are  supplemented  by  tours  in 
Switzerland  and  among  the  Lakes.  Not 
only  are  free  libraries  to  the  fore,  but 
the  gymnasium  is  a  feature  in  the 
surroundings  of  a  parish  church.  All 
this  is  well,  but  my  point  is  that  this 
indicates  plainly  a  present  and  growing 
desire  to  mitigate  the  pressure  of  daily 
work.     The  leisured  classes,  with  their 


Hours  of  Labour. 


371 


People's  Palaces  and  recreative  insti- 
tutions of  one  kind  or  another,  are 
touched  with  a  feeling  that  the  toil  of 
the  many  has  been  too  heavy,  and  that 
it  behoves  the  philanthropist  to  lighten 
it.  A  sentence  has  been  pronounced 
on  the  pressure  of  the  past.  Early 
closing,  shorter  hours,  lighter  labour, 
not  only  mark  the  desire  of  the  worker, 
but  the  efforts  of  the  kindly  Christian. 
It  is  difficult  to  say  how  far  this 
benevolence  is  aided  by  fashion.  There 
are  tides  in  charity  as  well  as  in  dress. 
When  a  movement  has  been  made  in 
any  direction,  some  people  are  sure  to 
"  fall  into  it,"  as  we  say,  simply  because 
it  has  been  made,  and  they  enjoy  the 
sensation  of  swimming  with  the  stream. 
And  this  ductile  disposition  is  not 
inoperative  (so  far  fortunately)  when 
the  end  to  be  obtained  is  a  good  one. 
But  the  thoughtful  Christian,  who 
reads  his  Bible,  might  see  that  this 
stir  about  the  hours  of  labour  has 
there  a  distinctly  deep  origin,  or  at 
least  support.  I  have  already  referred 
to  the  fourth  commandment,  and  there 
we  may  perceive  that  God  intervenes, 
so  to  speak,  in  man's  division  of  his 
time,  by  setting  a  limit  to  that  of  work. 
This  is  desirable  for  some  who  would 
make  slaves  of  themselves  for  the  sake 
of  gain.  They  rise  up  early,  take  no 
rest,  and  eat  the  bread  of  carefulness 
with  such  ardour  that  it  is  well  for 
them  to  be  checked,  and  learn,  if  it 
may  be,  that  man  does  not  live  by 
bread  alone.  But  there  are  more  who 
need  to  be  protected.  They  are  men-r 
tioned  by  name,  men-servants,  maid- 
servants, and  cattle.  And  as  we  realise 
the  drift  and  tone  of  these  dii'ections, 
we  might  see  that  it  is  not  God's 
will  that  men  should  be  left,  each  one 
by  himself,  to  settle  the  limits  of 
labour. 


Either  by  combined  agreement  or 
legal  enactment  we  are  invited,  as  it 
were,  to  say  how  long  a  man  shall 
work.  There  is  no  unbroken  con- 
tinuance of  toil  within  its  limits  in- 
volved in  the  well-known  saying  of 
Christ  about  the  twelve  hours  of  the 
day.  He  only  points  out  the  period 
during  which  no  night  work  should 
be  done.  Indeed,  this  saying  of  His 
is,  indirectly,  a  protest  against  its 
being  prolonged.  And  we  find  Him 
bidding  His  disciples  to  come  apart 
and  rest  by  daytime,  even  when  good 
works  gave  them  insufficient  leisure. 

And  now  that  we  live  in  an  air  and 
an  age  which  is  relieved  by  none  of  that 
Oriental  repose  which  surely  marked 
the  times  of  the  Gospel  and  the  Law, 
we  are  the  more  bidden  to  see  that  we 
interpret  rightly  the  ancient  command- 
ment about  labour,  and  perceive  the 
spirit  which  lay  under  its  letter.  Espe- 
cially is  the  leisured  Christian  called  to 
take  care  lest  he  treats  any  protest 
against  long  hours  of  work  in  an  indo- 
lent protected  attitude  ]  appealing  to 
the  exigencies  of  civilisation  as  if  they 
were  the  only  measure  of  the  duties 
which  he  owes  to  his  less  favoured 
brother,  and  forgetting  that  among 
the  things,  good  and  bad,  for  which  we 
have  to  give  account  must  be  reckoned 
the  concern  we  feel  for,  and  the  atten- 
tion we  give  to,  his  desires  or  demands 
for  more  escape  from  the  pressure  of 
insistent  toil  than  he  can  individually 
secure.  As  we  try  (as  we  should)  to 
look  at  the  signs  and  questions  of  the 
times  in  a  Christian  light,  so,  and  so 
only,  are  we  doing  our  duty  towards 
our  neighbour  in  the  sight  of  God. 

Habry  Jones, 


B  B  2 


372 


THE    UNIVERSAL    LANGUAGE. 


Ever  since  the  confusion  of  tongues 
on  the  plains  of  Shinar,  or  the  diffu- 
sion of  races  in  the  highlands  of  Iran, 
the  nations  of  mankind  have  laboured 
under  the  disadvantage  of  having  no 
medium  of  communication  in  the  way 
of  a  common  language.  One  people 
has  been  accustomed  to  regard  the 
speech  of  another  people  as  mere 
gibberish,  no  less  unintelligible  than 
the  jabber  of  an  idiot  or  the  twitter- 
ings of  a  swallow. 

In  early  times  the  "man  of  two 
tongues  "  was  looked  upon  as  a  phe- 
nomenon, useful  indeed,  but  unusual. 
The  Phoenicians  were  the  first,  thanks 
to  their  trading  propensities,  to  spread 
a  knowledge  of  their  language  beyond 
their  own  borders,  and  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  Phoenician,  or.  a  cor- 
rupt form  of  it,  was  pretty  widely 
known  along  the  coasts  of  the  Medi- 
terranean. It  is  supposed  that  we 
owe  our  word  gorilla  to  the  Phoeni- 
cians ;  and  they  most  probably  gave 
the  Greeks  and  other  nations,  and  us 
through  them,  the  groundwork  of  our 
alphabets.  The  sceptre  of  commerce 
passed  from  the  Phoenicians  to  the 
Greeks,  who  under  Alexander  came 
near  to  imposing  their  language  upon 
the  whole  of  the  civilised  world.  We 
may  be  pardoned  for  regretting  that 
they  did  not  succeed  ;  yet  to  this  day 
Greek  is  more  of  a  living  language 
than  Latin.  When  Science  requires  a 
word  for  a  new  invention  or  a  new 
discovery,  she  goes  instinctively  to 
Greek  for  it.  Nor  can  the  language 
in  which  the  New  Testament  is  written 
ever  become  entirely  dead  while  Chris- 
tianity endures. 

Latin  came  nearer  than  Greek  to 
being  the  language  of  the  world, 
though  not  in  itself  so  well  adapted 
for  it.  In  all  parts  of  the  Roman 
Empire  Latin  was  spoken.  In  most 
parts  it  killed  the  indigenous  tongues. 


Greek  however  still  maintained  an 
unequal  contest  with  its  later  rival. 
When  the  Roman  Empire  fell  beneath 
the  assaults  of  barbarians  Greek  dis- 
appeared, and  Latin  would  have  done 
so  had  it  not  been  for  the  spiritual 
supremacy  which  Rome  continued  to 
enjoy  as  the  seat  of  the  Papal  power. 
This  preserved  Latin  as  the  one  com- 
mon language,  so  far  as  there  was  a 
common  language  at  all,  for  two  or 
three  centuries  more.  We  see  the 
commanding  position  it  held  by  the 
fact  that  scholars,  scientists,  jurists, 
as  Casaubon,  Linnaeus,  Grotius, 
whether  English,  or  Dutch,  or 
Swedish,  could  not  choose  but  employ 
it  in  making  their  thoughts  known 
to  the  world.  To  this  day  Latin  is 
the  most  convenient  medium  for  notes 
on  classical  authors,  and  a  Poppo  or 
an  Orelli  is  intelligible  even  to  a 
schoolboy,  where  a  Ritschl  or  a  Brix 
would  be  useless.  So  late  an  English 
editor  as  Shilleto  has  advocated  the 
retention  of  Latin  as  the  language  at 
least  for  critical  notes.  It  is  besides 
so  convenient  for  a  commentator  to 
describe  a  rival's  emendation  as  putida, 
where  he  could  not  by  any  possibility 
print  the  corresponding  English  term 
**  rotten.'*  r 

There  are  some  who  think  that 
Latin  can  even  at  this  eleventh  hour 
be  revived,  a  colloquial  form  of  Latin, 
that  is  to  say,  and  modernized  in 
vocabulary  and  construction,  to  serve 
the  purpose  of  a  common  language. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  Latin  has  a 
certain  conversational  value  on  the 
Continent,  and  among  educated  men 
everywhere.  Lord  Dufferin,  if  his 
own  account  is  to  be  taken  literally, 
was  able  to  arrest  the  attention  of  an 
Icelandic  audience  with  an  impromptu 
after-dinner  speech  in  the  most  auda- 
cious dog- Latin.  Within  the  last  few 
months   two   newspapers  in   this  so- 


The  Universal  Langtiage, 


173 


called  dead  language  have  been  started, 
one  a  rather  heavy  and  serious  print, 
the  Nuntius  Latinus  Intemationalisy 
the  other  a  comic  paper,  called  Post 
Prandium,  consisting  principally  of  a 
reprint  of  comic  cuts  from  American 
papers  with  the  jokes  translated  and 
explained  (!)  in  Latin. 

So  much  for  the  dead  languages. 
Before  considering  the  modern  Euro- 
pean tongues  a  reference  can  scarcely 
be  omitted  to  Arabic,  the  only  Eastern 
tongue  which  has  obtained  a  vogue 
comparable  to  that  of  Latin  and 
Greek.  Owing  to  its  connection  with 
Islam,  one  of  the  greatest  religions  of 
the  world,  Arabic  has  become  the 
religious  and  acquired  speech  of  a 
vast  number  of  human  beings.  In 
many  parts  of  the  world  Arabic  is  the 
only  basis  of  education,  all  learning, 
human  and  divine,  being  summed  up 
in  the  Koran.  To  the  devout  Arab 
the  language  of  the  Koran  is  incalcul- 
ably superior  to  all  other  languages ; 
but  a  dispassionate  Western  critic  will 
hardly  concede  more  than  this,  that  it 
surpasses  all  other  languages  in  its 
vocabulary  of  abuse. 

But  Islam  is  a  lost  cause,  in  spite 
of  the  reported  conversion  of  English 
clergymen  and  ladies  in  England 
itself  to  the  creed  of  the  Prophet,  and 
with  its  fall  Arabic  will  gradually 
sink  back  into  the  obscurity  from 
which  its  own  intrinsic  merits  could 
never  by  themselves  have  raised  it. 

There  remain  then  but  two  com- 
petitors for  lingual  supremacy,  Eng- 
li-^h  and  French,  those  old  rivals.  It 
(lid  indeed  seem  at  one  time,  for  a  com- 
j)aratively  brief  period,  that  French 
would  win  the  day.  The  struggle 
})L'gan  eight  hundred  years  ago,  when 
the  French  Normans,  aided  by  Fortune 
and  the  Pope,  won  the  first  move  in  the 
momentous  game  between  the  two  races. 
England  was  divided  among  foreign 
soldiers,  and  all  that  was  English  was 
stamped  under  foot,  and,  so  far  as 
might  be,  destroyed.  It  was  fondly 
hoped  that  thus  the  English  language 
and  the  English  name  were  for  ever 
abolished ;  but  from  that  dark  welter 


of  tyranny  and  debasement  the  Saxons 
by  their  inherent  stamina  and  vitality 
triumphantly  emerged  a  united  nation. 
The   revival  of  English  was  due  in 
no   small   measure  to  that   ablest   of 
our  kings,  Edward  L,  who,  the  first 
monarch  since  the  Conquest  with  an 
English   name,  was  also   the  first  to 
prefer  English  as  the  language  of  the 
Government  and  Court.     In  Engl.md 
French  did  not  indeed  yield  without  a 
struggle,    but    it   degenerated    before 
long  into  French  of  the  type  of  Strat- 
ford-atte-Bowe.     Though  it  thus  failed 
to   strangle   the  Saxon  speech  in  its 
cradle,  on  the  Continent  it  still  had 
pretty  much  its  own  way.    It  gradu- 
ally  became  the  language  of  fashion 
— "  a  courtly  foreign  grace,"  which  all 
the  more  civilised  among  outer  bar- 
barians were  expected  to  acquire,  or  at 
all  events  supposed  to  desire  to  acquire' 
— and  also  the  language  of  diplomacy. 
French  has  undoubtedly  many  qualities 
fitting  it  for  both  these  purposes.     It 
is  sparkling  and  epigrammatic.     In  the 
turning    of  a   compliment,   or  in  the 
pointing   of    an    insult,    it    is    unap- 
proachable.    You  can  be  politer  in  it, 
and  ruder,  than   in   almost   any  lan- 
guage.     In   the  hands   of    diplomacy 
it  forms  an  almost  perfect  instrument 
for  making  that  which  is  not  appear 
as  though  it  were.     Yet  no  language 
is  clearer,  when  its  purpose  is  to  be 
clear.     But  in  all  the  nobler  qualities 
of  language,    sonorousness   of  expres- 
sion,   wealth    of    meaning,    adaption 
to  the  highest  forms  of  poetry  and  the 
deepest   outpourings  of  prajer,    it   is 
immeasurably  inferior  to  English. 

The  amour  jyropre  of  France  was  re- 
cently hurt  by  the  readiness  of  the 
astronomers  of  the  world  in  taking 
the  meridian  of  Greenwich  as  the 
scientific  meridian  for  the  whole  world. 
Let  her  console  herself  with  the 
thought  that  her  decimal  system,  with 
its  jargon  of  Gallicised  Greek,  will  in 
all  probability  force  itself  on  a  re- 
luctant world.  But  the  sceptre  of 
language  has  passed  for  ever  from  her 
grasp,  and  has  become  beyond  all 
doubt  the  heritage  of  English-speaking 


374 


The   Universal  Language. 


races.  It  has  recently  been  estimated 
that  English  is  spoken  by  nearly  twice 
as  many  people  as  any  other  European 
tongue.  In  this  respect  French  does 
not  even  hold  second  place;  German 
is  before  it,  and  Russian. 

English  is  gaining  ground  fast  in 
many  ways.  The  Continent  is  over- 
run with  English  travellers,  and  there 
is  scarcely  a  hotel  or  a  first-rate  shop 
where  English,  or  at  least  "  English 
as  she  is  spoke,"  cannot  bo  counted 
on  with  certainty.  Our  countrymen 
have  now  little  neeil  of  that  nervous 
"  continental  English  "  which  King- 
lake  so  humorously  describes.  In 
Germany  again  English  has  taken  the 
place  of  French  as  the  tirst  foreign 
language  to  be  learnt.  In  Russia  it 
is  the  same.  Dr.  Ijansdell,  writing  in 
1883,  says  that  to  speak  English  in 
Russia  and  Siberia  was  becoming  more 
fashionable  than  to  speak  French. 
'*  On  i)eut,"  said  his  informant,  wing- 
ing his  shaft  against  the  French  Eagle 
with  its  own  feathers,  **  on  pent  oublier 
main  tenant  le  Fran^ais  pour  apprendre 
r Anglais."'  lie  further  asserts  that 
Russians  prefer  English  to  their  own 
language  for  use  in  telegrams,  as  con- 
veying more  meaning  in  few  words. 
Another  sign  of  the  times  was  afforded 
by  the  conference  respecting  Samoa  in 
1881».  The  deliberations  in  that  con- 
ference were  not  conducted  in  French 
but  English,  for  the  sake  of  the  Ameri- 
can Commissioners,  the  (lerman  repre- 
sentatives being  all  able  to  sj)eak  in 
our  tongue. 

[n  uncivilised  regions  the  triumph 
of  Knglisli  i^,  needless  to  say,  even 
more  complete.  Dr.  }>lyden,  himself 
a  Liberian,  i<*lls  us  that  it  has  every- 
where on  I  lie  coast  of  Africa  driven 
out  all  other  KurojH'an  languages. 
Kven  in  the  Krench  I'olonv  of  Gaboon 
it  is  asserting  itself  against  Fiench; 
even  in  the  German  < 'anieroons  it 
•  livides  the  honours  with  < German.  It 
has  no  dan;^erous  rival  in  Africa  ex- 
cept Aral);*'.  Portuguese  was  the 
doininani  lan;,Mi;ige  on  the  west  coast 
lor  nianv  vears  ;  now  Kn;:lish  is 
>[)oken  continuously  f rom  Si<*rra  l-«eone 


to  the  San  Pedro  River,  a  distance  of 
over  eight  hundred  miles.  The  Nile 
and  the  Niger  and  the  Great  Lakes 
are  already  English :  the  Congo  and 
the  Zambesi  will  most  probably  end 
by  being  so ;  and  it  is  difHcult  to  see 
what  can  prevent  our  language  from 
becoming  the  common  language  of  the 
whole  continent. 

Omitting  all  mention  of  India,  where 
English  has  spread  with  unexampled 
rapidity,  Japan  is  said  to  be  adopting 
our  language  wholesale,  the  sign-boards 
of  the  shops  being  very  generally,  and 
the  names  of  towns  and  villages  al- 
ways, inscribed  in  English  as  well  lus 
Japanese  characters.  A  recent  tra- 
veller in  p]astern  lands  atlirms  to 
have  met  many  Chinamen,  Malays, 
Arabs,  and  fellaheen  who  could  speak 
good  English.  Even  in  the  northern 
wilds  of  Siberia,  nvi-ely  indeed  visited 
by  civilised  man,  Lieutenant  Palander, 
of  the  Swedish  Expedition  of  1878, 
says  that  out  of  more  than  one  thou- 
sand natives  the  crew  had  met  there 
was  not  one  who  did  not  know  a  few 
words  of  English. 

Thus  has  English  been  spretid  over 
all  parts  of  the  Old  World  by  travellers, 
merchants,  and  missionaries.  For  in- 
stance, the  only  foreign  language  learnt 
by  that  most  exclusive  of  all  races,  the 
Chinese,  is  a  sort  of  corrupt  English — 
pidghiy  or  business,  English,  as  it  is 
called.  But  missionaries  have  done 
not  a  little  in  Chinn,  and  much  else- 
where, to  spread  our  language,  and 
there  are  few  important  nations  in 
the  world  from  which  there  are  not 
some  converts  to  Christianity  who  can 
si»eak  it. 

Vet  with  all  this  we  have  not  yet 
mentioned  the  agency  which  has  done, 
and  will  do,  the  most  to  make  English 
the  universal  s|)eecli.  This  agency  is 
of  course  colonisation,  and  the  agents 
are  English-sj  eaking  colonists. 

In  a  hundred  vears  the  Tnited  States 
will  probably  have  as  many  inhabitants 
as  China,  and  it  is  not  likely  tliat 
Canada.  Australia,  New  Zealand,  and 
tlie  Cape  will  tall  nnich  short  of  half 
their  total,  espi^cially   if    England  be 


The  Universal  Language. 


375 


reckoned  with  them.  Some  have  in- 
deed been  found  to  maintain  that 
English  will  not  be  the  language  of 
the  whole  even  of  the  United  States, 
while  others  point  to  the  vigorous 
vitality  of  the  French  spoken  by  the 
French  Canadians,  and  the  recrudes- 
cence of  Welsh  in  the  British  Islands, 
as  hints  that  languages  die  hard. 
But  it  is  impossible  to  suppose  that 
such  considerations  can  affect  the 
main  question.  There  are  already 
signs  that  English  is  becoming  the 
literary  language  of  Europe.  Pro- 
fessor Vamb^ry,  a  Hungarian,  pub- 
lished his  autobiography  first  in  an 
English  dress :  the  Dutch  author  of 
the  Sin  of  Joost  Aveling  wrote  his 
novel,  An  Old  Maid,  in  English ;  and 
the  author  of  The  Crustacea  of  Norway ^ 
himself  presumably  a  Norwegian, 
frankly  owns  in  his  advertisement 
that,  to  obtain  the  largest  possible 
circulation  for  his  book,  it  will  be 
written  in  the  English  language. 

Not  only  is  English  practically 
certain  to  become  the  language  of  the 
world,  a  result  which  might  have  been 
due  to  accidental  circumstances,  but 
it  is  also  by  general  consent  admitted 
to  be  the  fittest  to  survive  in  the 
struggle.  Its  composite  character  ren- 
ders it  especially  suitable  for  an  inter- 
national language.  Though  its  founda- 
tion stones,  and  the  mortar  that  binds 
the  parts  together,  are  pure  Anglo- 
Saxon,  yet  there  is  scarcely  an  im- 
portant language,  classical  or  modern, 
which  has  not  furnished  its  quota  to 
the  structure.  It  has  practically  no 
accidence,  and  its  syntax  is  compara- 
tively simple.  The  only  difficulty  it 
presents  to  a  foreigner  is  its  pronun- 
ciation, tlie  same  syllable  being  often 
pronounced  in  different  ways.  With 
respect  to  its  great  qualities  as 
a  language  it  will  bo  sufficient 
to  quote  the  impartial  authority 
of  Jacob  Grimm,  who,  after  as- 
(iribing  to  it  a  veritable  power  of 
expression  such  as  perhaps  never  stood 
at  the  command  of  any  other  language 
of  men,  goes  on  to  say  :  "  The  English 
language  which  by  no  mere  accident 


has  produced  and  upborne  the  greatest 
and  most  predominant  poet  of  modern 
times,  may  with  all  right  be  called  a 
world-language,  and  like  the  English 
people  seems  destined  to  prevail  with 
a  sway  more  extensive  even  than  its 
present  over  all  regions  of  the  globe, 
for  in  wealth,  good  sense,  closeness  of 
structure,  no  other  language  now 
spoken  deserves  to  be  compared  with 
it." 

One  question  in  conclusion  suggests 
itself.  Every  language  that  lives  on 
the  lips  of  men  gradually  changes  and 
departs  more  and  more  from  its  original 
form.  How  will  this  affect  a  language 
if  spoken  over  all  the  world?  Even 
now  English  is  exhibiting  the  unique 
spectacle  of  a  language  with  two 
parallel  but  different  literatures  ;  Aus- 
tralia will  soon  add  a  third,  while  the 
spoken  speech  of  America,  both  in  in- 
tonation and  in  vocabulary,  is  diverg- 
ing more  and  more  from  the  original. 
English  people  are  accused  by  Ameri- 
cans of  speaking  their  common  lan- 
guage with  an  accent, — the  old  story 
of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb,  which  will 
doubtless  have  the  same  disastrous 
ending,  disastrous  at  least  for  the 
lamb. 

What  will  happen  appears  to  be 
this.  There  will  be  an  international 
English,  that  literary  English  which 
the  invention  of  printing  has  secured 
from  any  fundamental  corruption, 
though  no  doubt  it  will  change  very 
gradually ;  and  there  will  be  several 
separate  dialects  of  English,  which  in 
time  will  become  unintelligible  to 
other  portions  of  the  English  race. 
In  fact  what  has  already  happened  in 
China  will  happen  elsewhere.  There 
the  written  language  is  understood  all 
over  the  Empire,  but  an  inhabitant 
of  Canton  cannot  make  himself  in- 
telligible to  an  inhabitant  of  Pekin. 
However  that  may  be,  the  speech  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  of  Dry  den 
and  Swift,  of  Byron  and  Wordsworth, 
will  be,  in  a  sense  in  which  no  other 
language  has  been,  the  speech  of  the 
whole  world. 

C.  R.  Haines. 


:37() 


THE    SCARLET    HUNTER. 


A   LEGEND   OF  THE  FAR  NORTH. 


**  News  out  of  Egypt !  "  said  the 
Honourable  Just  TrafPord.  "  If  this 
is  true,  it  gives  a  pretty  finish  to  the 
season.  You  think  it  possible,  Pierre  ? 
It  is  every  man's  talk  that  there  isn't 
a  herd  of  bufFaloes  in  the  whole 
country  ;  but  this — eh  ?  " 

Pretty  Pierre,  the  Half -Breed,  did 
not  answer.  He  had  been  watching  a 
man's  face  for  some  time  ;  but  his 
eyer  were  now  idly  following  the 
smoke  of  his  cigarette  as  it  floated 
away  to  the  ceiling  in  fading  circles. 
He  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in 
Trafford's  remarks,  nor  in  the  tale 
that  Shangi  the  Indian  had  told  them  ; 
though  Shangi  and  his  tale  were  both 
sufficiently  uncommon  to  justify 
attention. 

Shon  McGann  was  more  impression- 
able. His  eyes  swam ;  his  feet 
shifted  nervously  with  enjoyment ; 
he  glanced  frequently  at  his  gun  in 
the  corner  of  the  hut ;  he  had  watched 
Trafford's  face  with  some  anxiety, 
and  accepted  the  i*esult  of  the  tale 
with  delight.  Now  his  look  was 
occupied  with  Pierre. 

Pierre  was  a  pretty  good  authority 
in  all  matters  concerning  the  prairies 
.and  the  North.  He  also  had  an 
instinct  for  detecting  veracity,  having 
practised  on  both  sides  of  the  equa- 
tion. Trafford  became  impatient,  and 
at  last  the  Half -Breed,  conscious  that 
he  had  tried  the  temper  of  his  chief  so 
far  as  was  safe,  lifted  his  eyes  and, 
resting  them  casually  on  the  Indian, 
replied :  "  Yes,  I  know  the  place. 
....  No,  I  have  not  been  there, 
but  I  was  told — ah,  it  was  long  ago. 
There  is  a  great  valley  between  hills, 
the  Kimash  Hills,  the  hills  of  the 
Mighty  Men.  The  woods  are  deep 
and   dark ;    there    is    but    one    trail 


through  them  and  it  is  old.  On  the 
highest  hill  is  a  vast  mound.  In  that 
mound  are  the  forefathers  of  a  nation 
that  is  gone.  Yes,  as  you  say,  they 
are  dead,  and  there  is  none  of  them 
alive  in  the  valley, — which  is  called 
the  White  Valley — where  the  buffalo 
are.  The  valley  is  green  in  summer, 
and  the  snow  is  not  deep  in  winter  ; 
the  noses  of  the  buffalo  can  find  the 
tender  grass.  The  Indian  speaks  the 
truth,  perhaps.  But  of  the  number  of 
buffaloes,  one  must  see.  The  eye  of 
the  red  man  multiplies." 

Trafford  looked  at  Pierre  closely. 
*'  You  seem  to  know  the  place  very 
well.  It  is  a  long  way  north  where, 
— ah  yes,  you  said  you  had  never  been 
there ;  you  were  told.  Who  toM 
you  ?  " 

The  Half-Breed  raised  his  eye- 
brows slightly  as  he  replied :  *'  I 
can  remember  a  long  time,  and  my 
mother,  she  spoke  much  and  sang  many 
songs  at  the  camp-fires."  Then  he 
puffed  his  cigarette  so  that  the  smoke 
clouded  his  face  for  a  moment,  and 
went  on,  — "  I  think  there  may  be 
buffaloes." 

*'  It's  along  the  barrel  of  me  gun  I 
wish  I  was  lookin'  at  thim  now,"  said 
McGann. 

"  Eh,  you  will  go  ? "  inquired  Pierre 
of  Trafford. 

**  To  have  a  shot  at  the  only  herd 
of  wild  buffaloes  on  the  continent !  Of 
course  I'll  go.  I'd  go  to  the  North 
Pole  for  that.  Sport  and  novelty  I 
came  here  to  see ;  buffalo-hunting  I 
did  not  expect !  I'm  in  luck,  that's  all. 
We'll  start  to-morrow  morning,  if  we 
can  get  ready,  and  Shangi  here  will 
lead  us  ;  eh,  Pierre  ? " 

The  Half-Breed  again  was  not 
polite.     Instead  of   replying   he  sang 


The  Scarlet  Hunter. 


377 


almost  below  his  breath  the  words  of 
a  song  unfamiliar  to  his  companions, 
though  the  Indian's  eyes  showed  a 
flash  of  understanding.  These  were 
the  words  : 

They  ride   away  with  a  waking  wind,— 

away,  away  ! 
With  laughing  lip  and  with  jocund  mind 

at  break  of  day. 
A  rattle  of  hoofs  and  a  snatch  of  song, — 

thev  ride,  thev  ride  ! 
The  i)lains  are  wide  and  the  path  is  long, — 

so  long,  so  wide  I 

Just  Tr afford  appeared  ready  to 
deal  with  this  insolence,  for  the  Half- 
Bieed  was  after  all  a  servant  of  his,  a 
paid  retainer.  He  waited,  however. 
Shon  saw  the  difficulty,  and  at  once 
volunteered  a  reply.  "  It's  aisy 
enough  to  get  away  in  the  mornin', 
but  it's  a  question  how  far  we'll  be 
able  to  go  with  the  horses.  The  year 
is  late ;  but  there's  dogs  beyand,  I 
suppose,  and,  bedad,  there  y'  are  !  " 

The  Indian  spoke  slowly  :  "  It  is 
far  off.  There  is  no  colour  yet  in  the 
leaf  of  the  larch.  The  river-hen  still 
swims  northward.  It  is  good  that  we 
go.  There  is  much  buft'alo  in  the 
White  Valley." 

Again  Trafford  looked  towards  his 
follower,  and  again  the  Half -Breed, 
as  if  lie  were  making  an  effort  to 
remember,    sang   abstractedly : 

They  follow,  they  follow  a  lonely  trail,  by 

day,  by  night, 
By  distant  sun,  and  by  fire-fly  pale,  and 

northern  light. 
The  ri<le  to  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  so 

swift  they  go  ! 
Where  buftalo  feed  in  the  wilding  glen  in 

sun  and  snow. 

"  Pierre  !  "  said  Traft'ord  sharply,  "  I 
want  an  answer  to  my  question." 

**  Mais,  j^cit'don,  I  was  thinking  .  .  . 
well,  we  can  ride  until  the  deep  snows 
come,  then  we  can  walk  ;  and  Shangi, 
he  can  get  the  dogs,  maybe,  one  team 
of  dogs." 

"  But,"  was  the  reply,  "  one  team  of 
dogs  will  not  be  enough.  We'll  bring 
meat  and  hides,  you  know,  as  well 
as  pemmican.      We   won't   cache  any 


carcases  up  there.  What  would  be 
the  use  ]  We  shall  have  to  be  back 
in  the  Pipi  Valley  by  the  spring-time." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Half-Breed  with  a 
cold  decision,  "  one  team  of  dogs  will 
be  enough ;  and  we  will  not  caclie,  and 
we  shall  be  back  in  the  Pipi  Valley 
before  the  spring,  perhaps," — but  this 
last  word  was  spoken  under  his 
breath. 

And  now  the  Indian  spoke,  with  his 
deep  voice  and  dignified  manner  ; 
**  Brothers,  it  is  as  I  have  said, — the 
trail  is  lonely  and  the  woods  are  deep 
and  dark.  Since  the  time  when  the 
world  was  young  no  white  man  hath 
been  there  save  one,  and  behold  sick- 
ness fell  on  him ;  the  grave  was  his 
end.  It  is  a  pleasant  land,  for  the 
gods  have  blessed  it  to  the  Indian  for 
ever.  No  heathen  shall  possess  it. 
But  you  shall  see  the  White  Valley 
and  the  buffalo.  Shangi  will  lead,  be- 
cause you  have  been  merciful  to  him, 
and  have  given  him  to  sleep  in  your 
wigwam,  and  to  eat  of  your  wild  meat. 
There  are  dogs  in  the  forest.  I  have 
spoken." 

Trafford  was  impressed,  and  annoyed 
too.  He  thought  too  much  sentiment 
was  being  squandered  on  a  very  prac- 
tical and  sportive  thing.  He  disliked 
functions  ;  speech-making  was  to  him 
a  matter  for  prayer  and  fasting.  The 
Indian's  address  was  therefore  more 
or  less  gratuitous,  and  he  hastened  to 
remark;  ** Thank  you,  Shangi;  that's 
very  good,  and  you've  put  it  poetically. 
You've  turned  a  shooting- excursion 
into  a  medieval  romance.  But  we'll 
get  down  to  business  now,  if  you  please, 
and  make  the  romance  a  fact,  beauti- 
ful enough  to  send  to  the  Times  or  the 
Xew  York  Sun,  Let's  see,  how  would 
they  put  it  in  the  Sun  ? — *  Extraordi- 
nary Discovery  —  Herd  of  buffaloes 
found  in  the  far  North  by  an  English- 
man and  his  Franco-Irish  Party — Sport 
for  the  gods — Exodus  of  hrules  to 
White  Valley  ! ' — and  so  on,  screeching 
to  the  end." 

Shon  laughed  heartily.  "  The  fun 
of  the  world  is  in  the  thing,"  he  said ; 
"  and  a  day  it  would  be  for  a  notch  on 


378 


The  Scarlet  Hunter. 


a  stick  and  a  rasp  of  gin  in  the  throat. 
And  if  I  get  the  sight  of  me  eye  on  a 
buffalo -ruck,  it's  down  on  me  knees 
I'll  go,  and  not  for  prayin'  aither  ! 
And  here's  both  hands  up  for  a  start 
in  the  mornin'  !  " 

Long  before  noon  next  day  they  were 
well  on  their  way.  Trafford  could  not 
understand  why  Pierre  was  so  reserved, 
and  when  speaking  so  ironical.  It 
was  noticeable  that  the  Half-Breed 
watched  the  Indian  closely,  that  he 
always  rode  behind  him,  that  he  never 
drank  out  of  the  same  cup.  The  leader 
set  this  down  to  the  natural  uncertainty 
of  Pierre's  disposition.  He  had  grown 
to  like  Pierre,  as  the  latter  had  come 
in  course  to  respect  him.  Each  was  a 
man  of  value  after  his  kind.  Each 
also  had  recognised  in  the  other  quali- 
ties of  force  and  knowledge  having 
their  generation  in  experiences  which 
had  become  individuality,  subterranean 
and  acute,  under  a  cold  surface.  It 
was  the  mutual  recognition  of  these 
equivalents  that  led  the  two  men  to 
mutual  trust,  only  occasionally  dis- 
turbed as  has  been  shown  ;  though  one 
was  regarded  as  the  most  fastidious 
man  of  his  set  in  London,  the  fairest- 
minded  of  friends,  the  most  comfortable 
of  companions  ;  while  the  other  was  an 
outlaw,  a  half-heathen,  a  lover  of  but 
one  thing  in  this  world, — the  joyous 
god  of  chance.  Pierre  was  essentially 
a  gamester.  He  would  have  extracted 
satisfaction  out  of  a  death-sentence 
which  was  contingent  on  the  trumping 
of  an  ace.  His  only  honour  was  the 
honour  of  the  game. 

Now,  with  all  the  swelling  prairie 
sloping  to  the  clear  horizon,  and  the 
breath  of  a  large  life  in  their  nostrils, 
these  two  men  were  caught  up  sud- 
denly, as  it  were,  by  the  throbbing 
soul  of  the  North,  so  that  the  subter- 
ranean life  in  them  awoke  and  startled 
them.  Trafford  conceived  that  tobacco 
was  the  charm  with  which  to  exorcise 
the  spirits  of  the  past.  Pierre  let  the 
game  of  sensations  go  on,  knowing 
that  they  pay  themselves  out  in  time. 
His  scheme  was  the  wiser.  The  other 
found  that  fast  riding  and    smoking 


were  not  sufficient.  He  became  sur- 
rounded by  the  ghosts  of  yesterdays ; 
and  at  length  he  gave  up  striving  with 
them,  and  let  them  storm  upon  him, 
until  a  line  of  pain  cut  deeply  across 
his  forehead,  and  bitterly  and  uncon- 
sciously he  cried  aloud,  "  Hester,  ah, 
Hester ! " 

But  having  spoken  the  spell  was 
broken,  and  he  was  aware  of  the  beat 
of  hoofs  beside  him,  and  Shangi  the 
Indian  looking  at  him  with  a  half 
smile.  Something  in  the  look  thrilled 
him  ;  it  was  fantastic,  masterful.  He 
wondered  that  he  had  not  noticed  this 
singular  influence  before.  After  all, 
he  was  only  a  savage  with  cleaner 
buckskin  than  his  race  usually  wore. 
Yet  that  glow,  that  power  in  the  face  ! 
— was  he  Pigean,  Black  foot,  Cree 
blood  ]  Whatever  he  was,  this  man 
had  heard  the  words  that  broke  so 
painfully  from  him. 

He  saw  the  Indian  frame  her  name 
upon  his  lips,  and  then  came  the  words, 
"  Hester,  Hester  Orvall' 

He  turned  sternly  and  said,  "  Who 
are  you  1  What  do  you  know  of 
Hester  Orval  1 " 

The  Indian  shook  his  head  gravely 
and  replied,  "  You  spoke  her  name,  my 
brother." 

"  I  spoke  one  word  of  her  name. 
You  have  spoken  two." 

"  One  does  not  know  what  one 
speaks.  There  are  words  which  are 
as  sounds,  and  words  which  are  as 
feelings.  Those  come  to  the  brain 
through  the  ear ;  these  to  the  soul 
through  sign  which  is  more  than  sound. 
The  Indian  hath  knowledge,  even  as 
the  white  man  ;  and  because  his  heart 
is  open  the  trees  whisper  to  him  ;  he 
reads  the  language  of  the  grass  and 
the  wind,  and  is  taught  by  the  song 
of  the  bird,  the  screech  of  the  hawk, 
the  bark  of  the  fox.  And  so  he  comes 
to  know  the  heart  of  the  man  who 
hath  sickness,  and  calls  upon  some  one, 
even  though  it  be  a  weak  woman,  to 
cure  his  sickness ;  who  is  bowed  low 
as  beside  a  grave,  and  would  stand 
upright.  Are  not  my  words  wise  %  As 
the  thoughts  of  a  child  that  dreams, 


The  Scarlet  Hunter. 


379 


as  the  face  of  the  blind,  the  eye  of  the 
beast,  or  the  anxious  hand  of  the  poor, 
— are  they  not  simple  and  to  be 
understood  ? " 

Just  Trafford  made  no  reply.  But 
behind  Pierre  was  singing  in  the 
plaintive  measure  of  a  chant : 

A  hunter  rideth  the  herd  abreast, 

The  Scarlet  Hunter  from  out  of  the  West, 

Whose  arrows   with  points  of  flame  are 

drest, 
Who  loveth  the  beast  of  the  field  the  best. 
The  child  and  the  young  bird  out  of  the 
nest, — 
They  ride  to  the  hunt  no  more, — no 
morel 

They  travelled  beyond  all  bounds  of 
civilisation  ;  beyond  the  northernmost 
Indian  villages,  until  the  features  of 
the  landscape  became  more  rugged  and 
solemn,  and  at  last  they  paused  at  a 
place  which  the  Indian  called  Misty 
Mountain,  and  where,  disappearing 
for  an  hour,  he  returned  with  a  team 
of  Eskimo  dogs,  keen,  quick-tempered, 
and  enduring.  They  had  all  now  re- 
covered from  the  disturbing  sentiments 
of  the  first  portion  of  the  journey  ;  life 
was  at  full  tide ;  the  spirit  of  the 
hunter  was  on  them. 

At  length  one  night  they  camped  in 
a  vast  pine  grove  wrapped  in  coverlets 
of  snow,  and  silent  as  death.  Here 
again  Pierre  became  moody  and  alert 
and  took  no  part  in  the  careless  chat 
at  the  camp-fire  led  by  Shon  McGann. 
The  man  brooded  and  looked  mysterious. 
Mystery  was  not  pleasing  to  Trafford. 
He  had  his  own  secrets,  but  in  the 
ordinary  affairs  of  life  he  preferred 
simplicity.  In  one  of  the  silences  that 
fell  between  Shon's  attempts  to  give 
hilarity  to  the  occasion,  there  came  a 
rumbling  far-off  sound,  a  sound  that 
increased  in  volume  till  the  earth 
beneath  them  responded  gently  to  the 
vibration.  Trafford  looked  up  inquir- 
ingly at  Pierre,  and  then  at  the  Indian, 
who  after  a  moment  said  slowly  : 
**  Above  us  are  the  hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men,  beneath  us  is  the  White  Yalley. 
It  is  the  tramp  of  buffalo  that  we  hear. 
A  storm  is  coming,  and  they  go  to 
shelter  in  the  mountains." 


The  information  had  come  somewhat 
suddenly,  and  McGann  was  the  first 
to  recover  from  the  pleasant  shock  : 
"  It's  divil  a  wink  of  sleep  I'll  get 
this  night,  with  the  thought  of  them 
below  there  ripe  for  slaughter,  and  the 
tumble  of  fight  in  their  beards." 

Pierre,  with  a  meaning  glance  from 
his  half-closed  eyes,  added  :  "  But  it  is 
the  old  saying  of  the  prairies  that  you 
do  not  shout  dinner  till  you  have  your 
knife  in  the  loaf.  Your  knife  is  not 
yet  in  the  loaf,  Shon  McGann." 

The  boom  of  the  tramping  ceased, 
and  now  there  was  a  stirring  in  the 
snow-clad  tree-tops,  and  a  sound  as  if 
all  the  birds  of  the  North  were  flying 
overhead.  The  weather  began  to  moan 
and  the  boles  of  the  pines  to  quake. 
And  then  there  came  war — a  trouble 
out  of  the  North — a  wave  of  the  breath 
of  God  to  show  inconsequent  man  that 
he  who  seeks  to  live  by  slaughter  hath 
slaughter  for  his  master. 

They  hung  over  the  fire  while  the 
forest  cracked  round  them,  and  the 
flame  smarted  with  the  flying  snow. 
And  now  the  trees,  as  if  the  elements 
were  closing  in  on  them,  began  to 
break  close  by,  and  one  plunged  for- 
ward towards  them.  Trafford,  to 
avoid  its  stroke,  stepped  quickly  aside 
right  into  the  line  of  another  which  he 
did  not  see.  Pierre  sprang  forward 
and  swung  him  clear,  but  was  himself 
struck  senseless  by  an  outreaching 
branch. 

As  if  satisfied  with  this  achievement, 
the  storm  began  to  subside.  When 
Pierre  recovered  consciousness  Trafford 
clasped  his  hand  and  said,  "  You've  a 
sharp  eye,  a  quick  thought,  and  a  deft 
arm,  comrade." 

"Ah,  it  was  in  the  game.  It  is 
good  play  to  assist  your  partner,"  the 
Half-Breed  replied  sententiously. 

Through  all  the  Indian  had  remained 
stoical.  But  McGann,  who  swore  by 
Trafford — as  he  had  once  sworn  by 
another  of  the  Trafford  race, — had  his 
heart  on  his  lips,  and  said  : 

"  There's  a  swate  little  cherub  that  sits  up 
aloft. 
Who  cares  for  the  soul  of  poor  Jack  !  '* 


380 


The  Scarlet  Hunter. 


It  was  long  after  midnight  ere  they 
settled  down  again,  with  the  wreck  of 
the  forest  round  them.  Only  the 
Indian  slept;  the  others  were  alert 
and  restless.  They  were  up  at  day- 
break, and  on  their  way  before  sunrise, 
filled  with  desire  for  prey.  They  had 
not  travelled  far  before  they  emerged 
upon  a  plateau.  Around  them  were 
the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men — solemn, 
majestic  ;  at  their  feet  was  a  vast 
valley  on  which  the  light  newly -fallen 
snow  had  not  hidden  all  the  grass. 
Lonely  and  lofty,  it  was  a  world  wait- 
ing chastely  to  be  peopled  !  And  now  it 
was  peopled,  for  there  came  from  a 
cleft  of  the  hills  an  army  of  buffaloes 
lounging  slowly  down  the  waste,  with 
tossing  manes  and  hoofs  stirring  the 
snow  into  a  feathery  scud. 

The  eyes  of  Trafford  and  McGann 
swam  ;  Pierre's  face  was  troubled,  and 
strangely  enough  he  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

At  that  instant  Trafford  saw  smoke 
issuing  from  a  spot  on  the  mountain 
opposite.  He  turned  to  the  Indian  : 
**  Some  one  lives  there  ?  '*  he  said. 

**  It  is  the  home  of  the  dead,  but 
life  is  also  there." 

"White  man,  or  Indian?" 

But  no  reply  came.  The  Indian 
pointed  instead  to  the  buffalo  rumbling 
down  the  valley.  Trafford  forgot  the 
smoke,  forgot  everything  except  that 
splendid  quarry.  McGann  was  ex- 
cited. "  Sarpints  alive  !  "  he  said, 
'*  look  at  the  troops  of  them  !  Is  it 
standin'  here  we  are  with  our  tongues 
in  our  cheeks,  whin  there's  beasts  to 
be  killed,  and  mate  to  be  got,  and  the 
call  to  war  on  the  ground  below  ! 
Clap  spurs  with  your  heels,  say  I,  and 
down  the  side  of  the  turf  together  and 
give  'em  the  teeth  of  our  guns ! " 
And  the  Irishman  dashed  down  the 
slope.  In  an  instant,  all  followed,  or 
at  least  Trafford  thought  all  followed, 
swinging  their  guns  across  their 
saddles  to  be  ready  for  this  excellent 
foray.  But  while  Pierre  rode  hard,  it 
was  at  first  without  the  fret  of  battle 
in  him,  and  he  smiled  strangely,  for  he 
knew  that  the  Indian  had  disappeared 


as  they  rode  down  the  slope,  though 
how  and  why  he  could  not  tell. 
There  ran  through  his  head  tales 
chanted  at  camp-fires  when  he  was 
not  yet  in  stature  so  high  as  the  loins 
that  bore  him.  They  rode  hard,  and 
yet  they  came  no  nearer  to  that  flying 
herd  straining  on  with  white  streaming 
breath  and  the  surf  of  snow  rising  to 
their  quarters.  Mile  upon  mile,  and 
yet  they  could  not  ride  these  monsters 
down ! 

And  now  Pierre  was  leading.  There 
was  a  kind  of  fury  in  his  face,  and  he 
seemed  at  last  to  gain  on  them.  But 
as  the  herd  veered  close  to  a  wall  of 
stalwart  pines,  a  horseman  issued  from 
the  trees  and  joined  the  cattle.  The 
horseman  was  in  scarlet  from  head  to 
foot ;  and  with  his  coming  the  herd 
went  faster,  and  ever  faster,  uDtil  they 
vanished  into  the  mountain-side;  and 
they  who  pursued  drew  in  their 
trembling  horses  and  stared  at  each 
other  with  wonder  in  their  faces. 

"  In  God's  name  what  does  it 
mean?"  Trafford  cried. 

"Is  it  a  trick  of  the  eye  or  the  hand 
of  the  devil  1 "  added  McGann. 

"  In  the  name  of  God  we  shall 
know  perhaps.  If  it  is  the  hand  of 
the  devil  it  is  not  good  for  us," 
remarked  Pierre. 

"  Who  was  the  man  in  scarlet  who 
came  from  the  woods  ? "  asked  Trafford 
of  the  Half -Breed. 

"  Eh,  it  is  strange  !  There  is  an 
old  tale  among  the  Indians  !  My 
mother  told  many  tales  of  the  place 
and  sang  of  it,  as  I  sang  to  you.  The 
legend  was  this : — In  the  hills  of  the 
North  which  no  white  man,  nor  no 
Indian  of  this  time  hath  seen,  the 
forefathers  of  the  red  men  sleep ;  but 
some  day  they  will  wake  again  and  go 
forth  and  possess  all  the  land  ;  and 
the  buffalo  are  for  them  when  that 
time  shall  come,  that  they  may  have 
the  fruits  of  the  chase,  and  that  it  be 
as  it  was  of  old,  when  the  cattle  were 
as  clouds  on  the  horizon.  And  it  was 
ordained  that  one  of  these  mighty  men 
who  had  never  been  vanquished  in 
fight,  nor  done  an  evil  thing,  and  was 


The  Scarlet  Hunter, 


381 


the  greatest  of  all  the  chiefs,  should 
live  and  not  die,  but  be  as  a  sentinel, 
as  a  lion  watching,  and  preserve  the 
White  Valley  in  peace  until  his 
brethren  waked  and  came  into  their 
own  again.  And  him  they  called  the 
Scarlet  Hunter ,  and  to  this  hour  the 
red  men  pray  to  him  when  they  lose 
their  way  upon  the  plains,  or  Death 
draws  aside  the  curtains  of  the  wigwam 
to  call  them  forth." 

*'  Repeat  the  verses  you  sang, 
Pierre,"  said  Traiford. 

The  Half-Breed  did  so.  When  he 
came  to  the  words  "  Who  loveth  the 
beast  of  the  field  the  best,''  the 
Englishman  looked  round.  '*  Where 
is  Shangi]"  he  said. 

McGann  shook  his  head  in  as- 
tonishment and  negation.  Pierre 
explained  :  **  On  the  mountain-side 
where  we  ride  down  he  is  not  seen, — 
he  vanished  ....  mon  Dieu,  see  !  " 

On  the  slope  of  the  mountain  stood 
the  Scarlet  Hunter  with  drawn  bow. 
From  it  an  arrow  flew  over  their  heads 
with  a  sorrowful  twang  and  fell  whi  re 
the  smoke  rose  among  the  pines ; 
then  the  mystic  figure  disappeared. 

McGann  shuddered  and  drew  himself 
together.  '*  It  is  the  place  of  spirits," 
he  said  ;  **  and  it's  little  I  like  it,  God 
knows  ;  but  I'll  follow  that  Scarlet 
Hunter,  or  red  devil,  or  whatever  he 
is,  till  I  drop,  if  the  Honourable  gives 
the  word.  For  flesh  and  blood  I'm 
not  afraid  of  ;  and  the  other  we  come 
to,  whether  we  will  or  not,  some  day." 

But  Trafford  said  :  "No,  we'll 
let  it  stand  where  it  is  for  the  present. 
Something  has  played  our  eyes  false, 
or  we're  brought  here  to  do  work 
different  from  buffalo-hunting.  Where 
that  arrow  fell  among  the  smoke  we 
must  go  first.  Then,  as  I  read  the 
riddle,  we  travel  back  the  way  we 
came.  There  are  points  in  connection 
with  the  Pi  pi  Valley  that  are  superior 
to  the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men." 

They  rode  away  across  the  glade, 
and  through  a  grove  of  pines  upon  a 
hill,  till  they  stood  before  a  log-hut 
with  parchment  windows. 

Trafford  knocked,  but  there  was  no 


response.  He  opened  the  door  and 
entered.  He  saw  a  figure  rise  pain- 
fully from  a  couch  in  a  corner, 
— the  figure  of  a  woman  young  and 
beautiful,  but  wan  and  worn.  She 
seemed  dazed  and  inert  with  suffering, 
and  spoke  mournfully  :  "  It  is  too  late. 
Not  you,  nor  any  of  your  race,  nor 
anything  on  earth  can  save  him.  He 
is  dead,  dead  now." 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  voice 
Trafford  started.  He  drew  near  to 
her,  as  pale  as  she  was,  and  wonder  and 
pity  were  in  his  face.  **  Hester,"  he 
said,  "  Hester  Orval ! " 

She  stared  at  him  like  one  that  had 
been  awakened  from  an  evil  dream, 
then  tottered  towards  him  with  the 
cry,  "Just,  Just,  have  you  come  to 
save  me  ?  O  Just ! "  His  distress 
was  sad  to  see,  for  it  was  held  in  deep 
repression,  but  he  said  calmly  and 
with  protecting  gentleness  :  "  Yes,  I 
have  come  to  save  you.  Hester,  how  is 
it  you  are  here  in  this  strange  place  1 
—you  !  " 

She  sobbed  so  that  at  first  she 
could  not  answer ;  but  at  last  she 
cried  :  "  O  Just,  he  is  dead  .  .  in 
there,  in  there  !  .  .  .  Last  night,  it 
was  last  night ;  and  he  prayed  that  I 
might  go  with  him.  But  I  could  not 
die  unforgiven, — and  I  was  right,  for 
you  have  come  out  of  the  world  to  help 
me,  and  to  save  me." 

"  Yes,  to  help  you  and  to  save  you, 
— if  I  can,"  he  added  in  a  whisper  to 
himself,  for  he  was  full  of  foreboding. 
He  was  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and 
things  that  had  chanced  to  him  this  day 
were  beyond  the  natural  and  healthy 
movements  of  his  mind.  He  had 
gone  forth  to  slay,  and  had  been  foiled 
by  shadows ;  he  had  come  with  a 
tragic,  if  beautiful,  memory  haunting 
him,and  that  memory  had  clothed  itself 
in  flesh  and  stood  before  him,  pitiful, 
solitary, — a  woman.  He  had  scorned 
all  legend  and  superstition,  and  here 
both  were  made  manifest  to  him.  He 
had  thought  of  this  woman  as  one  who 
was  of  this  world  no  more,  and  here 
she  mourned  before  him  and  bade  him 
go  and  look  upon  her  dead,  upon  the 


382 


The  Scarlet  Hunter, 


man  who  had  wronged  him,  into 
whom,  as  he  once  declared,  the  soul  of 
a  cur  had  entered, — and  now  what 
could  he  say  ?  He  had  once  carried  in 
his  heart  the  infinite  something  that  is 
to  men  the  utmost  fulness  of  life, 
which  losing  they  must  carry  lead  up- 
on their  shoulders  where  they  thought 
the  gods  had  given  pinions. 

McGann  and  Pierre  were  nervous. 
This  conjunction  of  unusual  things 
was  easier  to  the  intelligences  of  the 
dead  than  the  quick.  The  outer  air 
was  perhaps  less  charged  with  the 
unnatural,  and  with  a  glance  towards 
the  room  where  Death  was  quartered 
they  left  the  hut. 

Trafford  was  alone  with  the  woman 
through  whom  his  life  had  been  turned 
away.  He  looked  at  her  searchingly  ; 
and  as  he  looked  the  mere  man  in  him 
asserted  itself  for  a  moment.  She 
was  dressed  in  coarse  garments  ;  it 
struck  him  that  her  grief  had  a  touch 
of  commonness  about  it ;  there  was 
something  imperfect  in  the  dramatic 
setting.  His  recent  experiences  had 
had  a  kind  of  grandeur  about  them  ; 
it  was  not  thus  that  he  had  remem- 
bered her  in  the  hour  when  he  had 
called  upon  her  in  the  plains,  and  the 
Indian  had  heard  his  cry.  He  felt, 
and  was  ashamed  in  feeling,  that  there 
was  a  grim  humour  in  the  situation. 
The  fantastic,  the  melodramatic,  the 
emotional  were  huddled  here  in  too 
marked  a  prominence  ;  it  all  seemed, 
for  an  instant,  like  the  tale  of  a  wo- 
man's first  novel.  But  immediately 
again  there  was  roused  in  him  the 
latent  force  of  loyalty  to  himself  and 
therefore  to  her  ;  the  story  of  her 
past,  so  far  as  he  knew  it,  flashed  be- 
fore him,  and  his  eyes  smarted. 

He  remembered  the  time  he  had  last 
seen  her  in  an  English  country-house 
among  a  gay  party  in  which  Royalty 
smiled,  and  the  subject  was  content 
beneath  the  smile.  But  there  was 
one  rebellious  subject,  and  her  name 
was  Hester  Orval.  She  was  a  wilful 
girl  who  had  lived  life  selfishly  within 
the  lines  of  that  decorous  yet  pleasant 
convention   to   which   she   was  born. 


She  was  beautiful, — she  knew  that, 
and  Royalty  had  graciously  admitted 
it.  She  was  warm-thoughted,  and 
possessed  the  fatal  strain  of  the 
artistic  temperament.  She  was  not 
sure  that  she  had  a  heart ;  and  many 
others,  not  of  her  sex,  after  varying 
and  enthusiastic  study  of  the  matter 
were  not  more  confident  than  she.  But 
it  had  come  at  last  that  she  had  lis-, 
tened  with  pensive  pleasure  to  Traf- 
ford's  tale  of  love  ;  and  because  to  be 
worshipped  by  a  man  high  in  all  men's, 
and  in  most  women's,  esteem,  minis- 
tered delicately  to  her  sweet  egotism, 
and  because  she  was  proud  of  him, 
she  gave  him  her  hand  in  promise,  and 
her  cheek  in  privilege,  but  denied 
him, — though  he  knew  this  not — her 
heart  and  the  service  of  her  life.  But 
he  was  content  to  wait  patiently  for 
that  service,  and  he  wholly  trusted 
her,  for  there  was  in  him  some  fine 
spirit  of  the  antique  world. 

There  had  come  to  Falkenstowe, 
this  country  house  and  her  father's 
home,  a  man  who  bore  a  knightly 
name,  but  who  had  no  knightly  heart ; 
and  he  told  Ulysses'  tales  and  cov- 
ered a  hazardous  and  cloudy  past  with 
that  fascinating  colour  which  makes 
evil  appear  to  be  good ;  so  that  he 
roused  in  her  the  pulse  of  art  which 
she  believed  was  soul  and  life,  and  her 
allegiance  swerved.  And  when  her 
mother  pleaded  with  her,  and  when 
her  father  said  stern  things,  and  even 
Royalty  with  uncommon  use  rebuked 
her  gently,  her  heart  grew  hard  ;  and 
almost  on  the  eve  of  her  wedding- 
day  she  fled  with  her  lover,  and 
married  him,  and  together  they  sailed 
away  over  the  seas. 

The  world  was  shocked  and  clam- 
orous for  a  matter  of  nine  days,  and 
then  it  forgot  this  foolish  and 
awkward  circumstance ;  but  Just 
TrafEord  never  forgot  it.  He  re- 
membered all  vividly  until  the  hour, 
a  year  later,  when  the  London  jour- 
nals announced  that  Hester  Orval 
and  her  husband  had  gone  down 
with  a  vessel  wrecked  upon  the 
Alaskan   and    Canadian   coast.     And 


Ths  Scarlet  Hunter, 


383 


there    new    regret     began    and    his 
knowledge  of  her  ended. 

But  she  and  her  husband  had  not 
been  drowned ;  with  a  sailor  they 
had  reached  the  shore  in  safety. 
They  had  travelled  inland  from  the 
coast  through  the  great  mountains 
by  unknown  paths,  and  as  they 
travelled  the  sailor  died ;  and  they 
came  at  last  through  innumerable 
hardships  to  the  Kimash  Hills, 
the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  and 
there  they  stayed.  It  was  not  an 
evil  land ;  it  had  neither  deadly 
cold  in  winter  nor  wanton  heat  in 
summer.  But  they  never  saw  a 
human  face,  and  everything  was 
lonely  and  spectral.  For  a  time  they 
strove  to  go  eastwards  or  southwards 
but  the  mountains  were  impassable, 
and  in  the  north  and  west  there 
was  no  hope.  Though  the  buffalo 
swept  by  them  in  the  valley  they 
could  not  slay  them,  and  they  lived 
on  forest  fruits  until  in  time  the 
man  sickened.  The  woman  nursed 
him  faithfully  but  still  he  failed ; 
and  when  she  could  go  forth  no 
more  for  food,  some  unseen  dweller 
of  the  woods  brought  buffalo  meat, 
and  prairie  fowl,  and  water  from 
the  si)ring,  and  laid  them  beside 
her  door. 

She  had  seen  the  mounds  upon 
the  hill,  the  wide  couches  of  the 
sleepers,  and  she  remembered  the 
things  done  in  the  days  when  God 
seemed  nearer  to  the  sons  of  men . 
than  now ;  and  she  said  that  a 
spirit  had  done  this  thing,  and 
trembled  and  was  thankful.  But 
the  luan  weakened  and  knew  that 
he  should  die  ;  and  one  night  when 
the  pain  was  sharp  upon  him  he 
prayed  I  utterly  that  he  might  pass,  or 
that  help  might  come  to  snatch  him 
from  the  grave.  And  as  they  sobbed 
together  a  form  entered  at  the 
door, — a  form  clothed  in  scarlet — 
and  he  l)ade  them  tell  the  tale  of 
tlieir  lives  as  they  would  some  time 
tell  it  unto  Heaven.  And  when  the 
tale  was  told  he  said  that  succour 
should  come  to  them  from  the  south 


by  the'  hand  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter, 
that  the  nation  sleeping  there  should 
no  more  be  disturbed  by  their  moan- 
ing. And  then  he  had  gone  forth, 
and  with  his  going  there  was  a  storm 
such  as  that  in  which  the  man  had 
died, — the  storm  that  had  assailed  the 
hunters  in  the  forest  yesterday. 

This  was  the  second  part  of  Hester 
Orval's  life  as  she  told  it  to  Just 
Trafford.  And  he,  looking  into  her 
eyes,  knew  that  she  had  suffered,  and 
that  she  had  sounded  her  husband's 
unworthiness.  Then  he  turned  from 
her  and  went  into  the  room  where 
the  dead  man  lay.  And  there  all 
hardness  passed  from  him  and  he 
understood  that  in  the  great  going- 
forth  man  reckons  to  the  full  with 
the  deeds  done  in  that  brief  pilgrimage 
called  life ;  and  that  in  the  bitter 
journey  which  this  one  took  across 
the  dread  spaces  between  Here  and 
There  he  had  repented  of  his  sins, 
because  they,  and  they  only,  went 
with  him  in  mocking  company ;  the 
Good  having  gone  first  to  plead  where 
Evil  is  a  debtor  and  hath  a  prison. 
And  the  woman  came  and  stood 
beside  Trafford,  and  whispered,  "At 
first — and  at  the  last — he  was  kind." 

But  he  urged  her  gently  from  the 
room  :  "  Go  away,"  he  said  ;  "  go 
away.  We  cannot  judge  him.  Leave 
me  alone  with  him." 

They  buried  him  upon  the  hill-side, 
far  from  the  mounds  where  the 
Mighty  Men  waited  for  their  summons 
to  go  forth  and  be  the  lords  of  the 
North  again.  At  night  they  buried 
him  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full ; 
and  he  had  the  fragrant  pines  for 
his  bed,  and  the  warm  darkness  to 
cover  him ;  and  though  he  is  to  those 
others  resting  there  a  heathen  and 
an  alien,  it  may  be  that  he  sleeps 
peacefully. 

When  Trafford  questioned  Hester 
Orval  more  deeply  of  her  life  there, 
the  uneai-thly  look  quickened  in  her 
eyes  and  she  said  :  "  Oh,  nothing, 
nothing  is  real  here,  but  suffering; 
perhaps  it  is  all  a  dream,  but  it 
has  changed    me,    changed    me.     To 


384 


The  Scarlet  Hunter, 


hear  the  tread  of  the  flying  herds, — 
to  see  no  being  save  him, — the  Scarlet 
Hunter — to  hear  the  voices  calling 
in  the  niglit  !  Hush !  There,  do 
you  not  hear  them  %  It  is  midnight, — 
listen  ! " 

He  listened,  and  Pierre  and  Shon 
McGann  looked  at  each  other  appre- 
hensively, ^vhile  Shon's  ficgers  felt 
huriiedly  along  the  beads  of  a  rosary 
which  he  did  not  hold.  Yes,  they 
heard  it,  a  deep  sonorous  sound  :  "  Is 
the  daybreak  come  1 "  "  It  is  still  the 
night,"  rose  the  reply  as  of  one  clear 
voice.  And  then  there  floated  through 
the  hills  more  softly  :  "  We  sleep — 
we  sleep ! "  And  the  sounds  echoed 
through  the  valley — "  sleep — sleep  !  " 

Yet  though  these  things  were  full  of 
awe,  the  spirit  of  the  place  held  them 
there,  and  the  fever  of  the  hunter 
descended  on  them  hotly.  In  the 
morning  they  went  forth,  and  rode 
into  the  White  Valley  where  the 
buffalo  were  feeding,  and  sought  to 
steal  upon  them ;  but  the  shots  from 
their  guns  only  awoke  the  hills,  and 
none  were  slain.  And  though  they  rode 
swiftly,  the  wide  surf  of  snow  was  ever 
between  them  and  the  chase,  and  their 
striving  availed  nothing.  Day  after 
day  they  followed  that  flying  column, 
and  night  after  night  they  heard  the 
sleepers  call  from  the  hills.  And  the 
desire  of  the  thing  wasted  them,  and 
they  forgot  to  eat,  and  ceased  to  talk 
among  themselves.  But  one.  day  Shon 
McGann,  muttering  aves  as  he  rode, 
gained  on  the  cattle,  until  once  again 
the  Scarlet  Hunter  came  forth  from  a 
cleft  of  the  mountains,  and  drove  the 
herd  forward  with  swifter  feet.  But 
the  Irishman  had  learned  the  power  in 
this  thing,  and  had  taught  Trafford, 
who  knew  not  those  availing  prayers, 
and  with  these  sacred  conjurations  on 
their  lips  they  gained  on  the  cattle 
length  by  length,  though  the  Scarlet 
Hunter  rode  abreast  of  the  thundering 
horde.  Within  easy  range,  Trafford 
swung  his  gun  shoulderwards  to  fire, 
but  at  that  instant  a  cloud  of  snow  rose 
up  between  him  and  his  quarry  so  that 
they  all  were  blinded.     And  when  they 


came  into  the  clear  sun  again  the 
buffalo  were  gone ;  but  flaming  arrows 
from  some  unseen  hunter's  bow  came 
singing  over  their  heads  towards  the 
south ',  and  they  obeyed  the  sign,  and 
went  back  to  where  Hester  wore  her 
life  out  with  anxiety  for  them,  because 
she  knew  the  hopelessness  of  their 
quest.  Women  are  nearer  to  the  heart 
of  things.  And  now  she  begged 
Trafford  to  go  southwards  before 
winter  froze  the  plains  impassably, 
and  the  snow  made  tombs  of  the 
valleys.  And  he  gave  the  word  to  go, 
and  said  that  he  had  done  wrong, — for 
now  the  spell  was  falling  from  him. 

But  she  seeing  his  regret  said  :  "  Ah, 
Just,  it  could  not  have  been  different. 
The  passion  of  it  was  on  you  as  it 
was  on  us  !  As  if  to  teach  us  that 
hunger  for  happiness  is  robbery,  and 
that  the  covetous  desire  of  man  is  not 
the  will  of  the  gods.  The  herds  are  for 
the  Mighty  Men  when  they  awake,  not 
for  the  stranger  and  the  Philistine." 

"You  have  grown  wise,  Hester,"  he 
replied. 

"  No,  I  am  sick  in  brain  and  body  ', 
but  it  may  be  that  in  such  sickness 
there  is  wisdom." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "it  has  turned  my 
head,  I  think.  Once  I  laughed  at  all 
such  fanciful  things  as  these.  This 
Scarlet  Hunter, — how  many  times  have 
you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  But  once." 

"  What  were  his  looks  ]  " 

'*  A  face  pale  and  strong,  with 
noble  eyes  ;  and  in  his  voice  there  was 
something  strange." 

Trafford  thought  of  Shangi,  the 
Indian, — where  had  he  gone  ]  He  had 
disappeared  as  suddenly  as  he  had  come 
to  their  camp  in  the  South. 

As  they  sat  silent  in  the  growing 
night,  the  door  opened  and  the  Scarlet 
Hunter  stood  before  them. 

"There  is  food,"  he  said,  "on  the 
threshold, — food  for  those  who  go  upon 
a  far  journey  to  the  South  in  the 
morning.  Unhappy  are  they  who  seek 
for  gold  at  the  rainbow's  foot,  who 
chase  the  fire-fly  in  the  night,  who 
follow  the  herds  in  the  White  Valley. 


The  Scarlet  Htmter. 


385 


Wise  are  they  who  anger  not  the  gods, 
and  who  fly  before  the  rising  storm. 
There  is  a  path  from  the  valley  for  the 
strangers,  the  path  by  which  they 
came ;  and  when  the  sun  stares  forth 
again  upon  the  world,  the  way  shall  be 
open,  and  there  shall  be  safety  for  you 
until  your  travel  ends  in  the  quick 
world  whither  you  go.  You  were 
foolish  ;  now  you  are  wise.  It  is  time 
to  depart ;  seek  not  to  return,  that  we 
may  have  peace  and  you  safety.  When 
the  world  cometh  to  her  spring  again 
we  shall  meet."  Then  he  turned  and 
was  gone,  with  TrafPord's  voice  ringing 
after  him, — "  Shangi !     Shangi !  " 

They  ran  out  swiftly  but  he  had 
vanished.  In  the  valley  where  the 
moonlight  fell  in  icy  coldness  a  herd  of 
cattle  was  moving,  and  their  breath 
rose  like  the  spray  from  sea- beaten 
rocks,  and  the  sound  of  their  breathing 
was  borne  upwards  to  the  watchers. 

At  daybreak  they  rode  down  into  the 
valley.  All  was  still.  Not  a  trace  of 
life  remained  ;  not  a  hoof -mark  in  the 
snow,  nor  a  bruised  blade  of  grass. 
And  when  they  climbed  to  the  plateau 
and  looked  back,  it  seemed  to  TrafPord 
and  his  companions,  as  it  seemed  in 
after  years,  that  this  thing  had  been  all 
a  fantasy.  But  Hester's  face  was 
beside  them,  and  it  told  of  strange  and 
unsubstantial  things.  The  shadows  of 
the  middle  world  were  upon  her.  And 
yet  again,  when  they  turned  at  the 
last,  there  was  no  token.  It  was  a 
northern  valley  with  sun  and  snow,  and 
cold  blue  shadows,  and  the  high  hills, 
— that  was  all. 

Then  Hester  said  :  *•  O  Just,  I  do 
not  know  if  this  is  life  or  death — and 
yet  it  must  be  death,  for  after  death 
there    is    forgiveness     to    those    who 


repent,  and  your  face  is  forgiving  and 
kind." 

And  he, — for  he  saw  that  she 
needed  much  human  help  and  comfort 
— gently  laid  his  hand  on  hers  and 
replied  :  "  Hester,  this  is  life,  a  new 
life  for  both  of  us.  Whatever  has  been 
was  a  dream ;  whatever  is  now," — and 
he  folded  her  hand  in  his — "  is  real ; 
and  there  is  no  such  thing  as  forgive- 
ness to  be  spoken  of  between  us.  There 
shall  be  happiness  for  us  yet,  please 
God ! '' 

"I  want  to  go  to  Falkenstowe. 
Will, — will  mother  forgive  me  1 " 

"Mothers  always  forgive,  Hester, 
else  half  the  world  had  slain  itself  in 
shame." 

And  then  she  smiled  for  the  first 
time  since  he  had  seen  her.  This  was 
in  the  shadows  of  the  scented  pines  ; 
and  a  new  life  breathed  upon  her,  as  it 
breathed  upon  them  all,  and  they  knew 
that  the  fever  of  the  White  Valley  had 
passed  away  from  them  for  ever. 

After  many  hardships  they  came  in 
safety  to  the  regions  of  the  south 
country  again ;  and  the  tale  they  told, 
though  doubted  by  the  race  of  pale 
faces,  was  believed  by  the  heathen  ; 
because  there  was  none  among  them, 
but,  as  he  swung  at  his  mother's 
breasts,  and  from  his  youth  up,  had 
heard  the  legend  of  the  Scarlet 
Hunter. 

For  the  romance  of  that  journey,  it 
concerned  only  the  man  and  woman  to 
whom  it  was  as  wine  and  meat  to  the 
starving.  Is  not  love  more  than  legend, 
and  a  human  heart  than  all  the  beasts 
of  the  field  or  any  joy  of  slaughter  1 

Gilbert  Parker. 


No.  389. — VOL.  Lxv 


c  o 


386 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK 


OF    SOME    NEW    BOOKS. 


I. 

The  simultaneous  publication  of  two 
separate  and  apparently  rival  editions 
of  a  course  of  lectures  delivered  more 
than  half  a  century  ago  is  something 
surely  unique  in  the  book- market.  The 
lectures  are  those  delivered  by  Carlyle 
on  the  History  of  Literature  (or,  more 
properly,  on  the  Spiritual  Progress  of 
the  World  a&  shown  in  its  Literature) 
in  the  summer  of  1838.  They  were 
reported  at  the  time,  though  of  course 
somewhat  scantily,  in  The  Exa/ininer 
and  other  papers,  but  a  full  report 
was  taken  in  short-hand  by  one  of 
the  audience,  Thomas  Chisholm  An- 
stey,  a  clever  man,  who  led  an  active 
and  versatile,  and  also  a  somewhat  con- 
troversial, career  in  England,  China, 
and  India.  These  reports  he  carefully 
wrote  out  and  preserved,  and  seems 
to  have  made  copies  of  them  for  some 
of  his  friends.  On  his  death  at  Bom- 
bay in  1873,  his  own  manuscript 
came  into  the  possession  of  the  Royal 
Asiatic  Society  in  that  city.  It  is 
from  this  manuscript  that  one  of  these 
editions  has  been  printed  and  published 
by  Messrs.  Curwen  and  Kane  in  Bom- 
bay, and  at  The  Times  of  India  office 
in  London.  The  other  edition,  pub- 
lished by  Messrs.  Ellis  and  Elvey  of 
Bond  Street,  has  been  printed  from  a 
copy  of  Mr.  Anstey's  manuscript  in 
their  possession  and  compared  with  a 
copy  belonging  to  Mr.  Dowden.  Mr. 
Karkaria,  who  has  edited  the  original 
manuscript  for  the  Bombay  publishers, 
assumes  his  to  be  the  only  genuine 
edition,  as  is  the  natural  way  of  editors 
all  the  world  over.  I  cannot  profess 
to  have  collated  the  two  volumes ;  but 
the  ordinary  reader  will  perhaps  not 
be  struck  by  any  great  dissimilarity. 


It  is  not  impossible  that  Mr.  Anstey's 
manuscript  may  differ  more  from  the 
original  lectures  than  the  copies  differ 
from  the  original  manuscript.  Not 
that  there  is  any  reason  to  suppose 
his  report  a  bad  one ;  but  amateur 
short-hand  reporters,  nor  amateurs 
only,  will  sometimes  make  mistakes, 
and  Carlyle  for  many  reasons  cannot 
have  been  an  easy  speaker  to  follow. 

Mr.  Reay  Greene,  who  has  edited  the 
English  publication,  wonders  why  Car- 
lyle did  not  issue  these  lectures  in  his 
lifetime,  and  thinks  the  reason  to  be 
that  he  "  shrank  fi'om  the  slow  labour 

• 

of  preparing  for  publication  discourses 
which  deal  with  topics  demanding 
careful  treatment  while  almost  infinite 
in  their  extent  and  diversity."  It  may 
have  been  so ;  but  another  reason 
is  possible.  Between  the  years  1837 
and  1840  Carlyle  delivered  in  all  four 
courses  of  lectures  in  London :  the 
first  was  on  German  Literature;  the 
second,  these  on  the  History  of 
Literature;  the  third  on  the  French 
Revolution,  after  the  publication  of 
his  famous  book ;  the  fourth  on 
Heroes.  The  first  and  third  courses 
seem  by  Mr.  Froude's  account  to  have 
been  no  great  things,  though  they 
brought  in  the  money  that  was  still 
sorely  needed,  and  for  which  alone 
Carlyle  undertook  a  business  that  he 
seems  to  have  cordially  detested,  and 
has  likened  to  "  a  man  singing  through 
a  fleece  of  wool."  But  in  the  second 
course  he,  according  to  the  same 
authority,  "succeeded  brilliantly." 
Yet  he  never  would  reprint  them, 
attaching  no  importance  to  what  he 
called  "  a  mixture  of  prophecy  and 
play-acting."  There  can  however  be 
little  doubt  that  he  used  what  he 
thought  best  in  the  three  first  courses, 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, 


387 


and  in  the  second  especially,  for  his 
last  and  best-known  course  on  Heroes, 
the  only  one  that  he  carefully  prepared 
and  wrote  out  beforehand  with  intent 
to  make  a  book  of  it.  Many  of  the 
figures  reappear ;  Dante  and  Shake- 
speare, Luther  and  Knox,  Johnson  and 
Rousseau,  Cromwell  and  Napoleon.  If 
we  compare  the  form  these  figures 
take  in  the  Lectures  on  the  Uistm'y  of 
Literature  with  the  form  given  to 
them  in  the  Lectures  on  Heroes,  we 
shall  see  that  the  earlier  work  stands 
to  the  later  much  as  the  first  quarto 
of  Hamlet  stands  to  the  play  we  read 
as  Shakespeare's. 

Is  it  not  possible  that  this  may 
have  been  one  of  the  reasons,  if  not 
the  chief  reason,  that  kept  Carlyle  from 
publishing  these  lectures  in  his  life- 
time ]  Some  might  even  think  it  a 
reason  against  publishing  them  now. 
Of  course  they  show  traces  of  the  man. 
An  austere  French  critic  has  dubbed 
Carlyle  **a  ]VI;in  of  Genius  in  the  shape 
of  a  Buffoon."  No  one  would  dispute 
the  first  part  of  the  proposition  ;  and 
it  would  not  be  difficult  out  of  the 
thirty  volumes  or  so  in  which  he  has 
preached  "the  Golden  Gospel  of 
Silence"  to  show  at  least  some  ground 
for  the  second.  Carlyle  himself  knew 
that  this  feeling  was  in  the  air. 
In  1848,  when  fame  and  money 
were  both  coming,  surely  if  still 
slowly,  he  wrote  in  hiii  journal ; 
**  The  friendliest  reviewers,  I  can  see, 
regard  me  as  a  wonderful  athlete,  a 
rope-dancer  whose  perilous  somersets 
it  is  worth  sixpence  (paid  into  the 
circulating  library)  to  see  ;  or  at  most 
I  seem  to  them  a  desperate,  half  mad, 
if  usef uUish  fireman,  rushing  aloDg  the 
ridge  and  tiles  in  a  frightful  manner 
to  quench  the  burning  chimney."  But 
at  least  in  all  his  various  moods,  serious 
or  mocking,  sublime  or  grotesque,  man 
of  genius,  buffoon,  rope-dancer,  or  fire- 
man, he  was  always  himself  and  none 
other.  And  even  in  these  lectures, 
crude  and  fragmentary  as  they  must 
have  been  in  their  original  shape — for 
who  could  trace  the  whole  spiritual 
history  of  man  from  the  earliest  times 


to  our  own  through  a  course  of  twelve 
lectures  of  something  under  an  hour's 
duration  apiece  in  other  than  a  frag- 
mentary manner  % — imperfectly  as  they 
may  have  come  down  to  us,  the  real 
Carlyle  is   still   momentarily    visible. 
The    "  devouring  eye   and   portraying 
hand,"  the  wonderful  qualities  of  ex- 
pression that,  in  Emerson's  fine  phrase, 
savour  always  of   eternity,    have   not 
yet  come  ;  but  they  are  coming,  and 
they  cast  their  shadows  before  them. 
The  few  sentences  in  which  he  sketches 
Johnson  and  Hume- — Johnson,    **  the 
great,  shaggy,  dusty  pedagogue  "  who 
"must    inevitably     be    regarded      as 
the    brother    of    all    honest     men "  ; 
Hume,  "who  always   knew  where  to 
begin     and     end  " — foreshadow     the 
wonderful  gallery  of  portraits  (kit-cats 
only  though  most  of  them  be)  that  we 
find  in  Cromwell  and  Frederick.     NTor 
would  it  be  easy  to  sum  Napoleon  up 
in  a  single  sentence  more  felicitously 
than  he  is  summed  in  this  :  **  Buona- 
parte himself  was  a  reality  at  first, 
but  afterwards  he  turned  out  all  wrong 
and  false," — a  sentence  elaborated  into 
several  pages  in  the    lecture  on  the 
Hero  as  King,  but  still  containing  in 
less  than  a  score  of  words  the  essential 
fact  of  the  man.     On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  no  lack  of  those  "  inarticulate 
mouthings,''  those  somersets  in  the  face 
of  all  order  and  reason,  beyond  which 
many  even  now  find  themselves  unable 
to  get  with  Carlyle.     We  are  told  that 
he  took  especial  pains  with  the  Greek 
and  Boman   part   of   these   lectures ; 
"  I  have  read  Thucydides  and  Hero- 
dotus  carefully,"    he    says.      Yet   he 
complains  that  the  Greek   historians 
busy   themselves   only    with    battles, 
which  does  not  suggest  that  they  had 
been  very  carefully  read.     And  what 
can  be  more  fatuous — there  is  really  no 
other  woi'd  for  it — than  this  judgment 
on  Gibbon  ?     *'  With  all  his  swagger 
and  bombast,  no  man  ever  gave  a  more 
futile  account  of  human  things  than 
he  has  done  of  the  decline  and  fall  of 
the  Homan  Empire  ;  assigning  no  pro- 
found   cause    for    these    phenomena, 
nothing  but  diseased  nerves,  and  all 


c  c 


o 


388 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book. 


sorts  of  miserable  motives,  to  the 
actors  in  them."  If  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  read  Thucydides  and  Herodotus 
very  carefully,  he  would  seem  not  to 
have  read  Gibbon  at  all.  If  ever  a 
man  made  the  causes  of  things  clear  it 
was  Gibbon.  The  reader  who  cannot 
find  in  those  six  volumes  what  brought 
the  Roman  Empire  to  ruin  must  be 
past  the  help  of  man. 

This  book  then  adds  nothing  to  our 
knowledge  of  Carlyle,  nor  can  alter 
our  opinions  in  either  direction. 
Without  it  he  would  have  remained 
the  same  figure,  neither  greater  nor 
less,  a  grand,  rugged,  solitary  figure, 
a  puzzle  in  life,  a  puzzle  in  death,  nor 
less  a  puzzle  to  himself  than  to  the 
world.  Yet  nothing  that  comes  direct 
from  the  genuine  man  can  ever  be 
uninteresting,  though  about  him  and 
about  him  there  has  been  now  perhaps 
more  than  enough.  The  world  could 
have  done  without  the  book ;  but  having 
got  it,  let  it  be  welcome  as  in  some 
.sort  the  voice  of  a  real  man,  even 
though  of  one  "  singing  through  wool." 


II. 

In  common  with  perhaps  the  majority 
of  my  countrymen  my  knowledge  of  the 
tenets  of  the  Positive  Philosophy  is  not 
very  clear.  Most  of  us  have  probably 
little  more  than  a  general  idea  that  so 
far  as  the  destructive  part  of  it  goes 
there  is  something  to  be  said  for  it,  but 
for  the  constructive  part  something 
less.  And  this  after  all  is  the  way  of 
most  creeds.  "Wreckage,"  said  one 
who  certainly  should  have  known,  "  is 
swift,  rebuilding  slow  and  distant;" 
but  at  least  he  comforted  himself 
with  thinking  that  "  Another  than  us 
has  charge  of  it."  The  Positivist 
holds  that  this  delicate  charge  is  in 
the  hands  of  man,  agreeing  with  Mr. 
Swinburne,  that  he  alone  is  "the 
master  of  things,"  that,  in  a  word, 
Humanity  is  the  only  Supreme  Being. 
Such  at  least  seems  to  have  been 
the  teaching  of  the  founder  of  the 
Positivist    Philosophy,  that   Auguste 


Comte  whom  George  Henry  Lewes 
(no  great  philosopher,  some  think, 
albeit  a  historian  of  Philosophy)  pro- 
claimed the  Bacon  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  only  **  more  so."  The  disciples 
may  have  gone  beyond  their  master  ; 
dogma  is  the  inevitable  growth  of  all 
religions. 

But  those  who  cannot  follow  the 
Positivists  to  their  extremest  conclu- 
sions, and  those  who  are  congenitally 
incapable  of  understanding  them  (of 
whom  myself  am  probably  one)  may  at 
least  unite  in  enjoying  their  Caleridar 
of  Great  Men,  as  put  forth,  after  many 
years  of  preparation,  by  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison.  The  Calendar  was  drawn 
up  by  Comte  himself  and  published  in 
1849,  as  "a  concrete  view  of  the  pre- 
paratory period  of  man's  history."  Its 
purpose  is  thus  described  by  Mr.  Har- 
rison in  his  preface  : — 

It  was  avowedly  provisional,  intended 
only  for  the  Nineteenth  Century  and  for 
Western  Europe.  Therein  he  arranged  a 
series  of  typical  names,  illustrious  in  all 
departments  of  thought  and  power,  begin- 
ning with  Moses  and  ending  with  thepoetb 
and  thinkers  of  the  present  century.  The 
greatest  names  were  associated  witli  the 
months  ;  fifty-two  other  great  names  with 
the  weeks  ;  and  one  worthy  was  given  to 
each  day  of  the  year,  less  important  types 
being  in  many  cases  substituted  for  those 
in  leap-year.  There  are  in  all  five  hun- 
dred and  thirty-eight  names  of  eminent 
men  and  women  in  this  Calendar,  dis- 
tributed into  four  classes  of  greater  or 
less  importance ;  they  range  over  all 
ages,  races,  and  countries  ;  and  they  em- 
brace Keligion,  Poetry,  Philosophy,  War, 
Statesmanship,  Industry,  and  Science.  .  . 
.  .  It  was  regarded  by  its  author  as  a  work 
of  art,  carefully  balanced  and  contrasted  in 
its  parts,  and  designed  to  convey  a  vivid 
impression  of  the  synthetic  or  organic 
character  of  Man's  general  progress.  For 
this  reason  it  takes  note  onlv  of  work  of  a 
constructive  and  creative  kind  ;  and  the 
most  eminent  destructives,  rcvolutiunists, 
and  Protestants  are  not,  as  such,  included, 
however  useful  for  their  time  their  solvent 
action  may  have  been.  The  Calendar  is 
that  part  of  the  work  of  Comte  which 
has  met  with  the  greatestamount  of  assent ; 
and  it  has  been  found  useful  and  suggestive 
by  very  many  who  reject  all  other  parts  of 
Comte's  system.      They  adopt  the  descrip- 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book. 


389 


tion  of  it  given  by  Mr.  Mill,  who  says : 
"  No  kind  of  human  eminence,  really  use- 
ful, is  omitted,  except  that  which  is  merely 
negative  and  destructive." 

The  form   of   the  Calendar  is  suffi- 
ciently described  by  Mr.  Harrison.     It 
will  be  enough  to  say  that  it   consists 
of  thirteen  months  of  four  weeks  each. 
The  months  are  thus  apportioned  :  the 
tirst  to  Moses  (representing  Theocratic 
Civilisation)  ;    the   second   to  Homer 
(Ancient  Poetry) ;  the  third  to  Aris- 
totle (Ancient  Philosophy) ;  the  fourth 
to  Archimedes  (Ancient  Science) ;  the 
fifth  to  Caesar  (Military  Civilisation) ; 
the  sixth  to  St.  Paul   (Catholicism) ; 
the  seventh   to   Charlemagne  (Feudal 
Civilisation);    the    eighth    to    Dante 
(Modern  Epic  Poetry)  ;   the  ninth  to 
Gutenberg   (Modern    Industry) ;    the 
tenth  tb  Shakespeare  (Modern  Drama) ; 
the    eleventh    to  Descartes    (Modern 
Philosophy)  ;  the  twelfth  to  Frederick 
II.  (Modern  Statesmanship) ;  the  thir- 
teenth   to  Bichat    (Modern    Science). 
Of  course  it  is  easy  to  be  puzzled  with 
the  system  under  which  the  names  are 
grouped.       One    does    not    see    very 
clearly  why   the   painters    should   be 
classed  under   Epic   Poetry,    and   the 
musicians  under  the   Modern  Drama. 
Some   may   think   it  strange    to    see 
Galileo,    Newton,   Lavoisier,   and  La- 
marck sitting  at  the  feet  of   Bichat. 
Thomas  a  Kempis  too  looks  to  heretic 
eyes  a  little  out  of  place  in  the   com- 
pany of  Byron  and  Shelley,  of  Klop- 
stock  and  Madame   de   Stael.     But  a 
list  of  great  names  is  like  a  list  of  the 
best  books,  or  an  anthology.     Every 
man  will  prefer  to  make  it  for  himself. 
*•  It  would    be   grossly   absurd,"   says 
Mr.  Harrison,  **  to   imagine  that  any 
possible  list  of  names  would  be  incap- 
able of  serious  amendment."     He  ad- 
mits that  **  We  know  more,  and  judge 
otherwise,  than  was  possible  in  Paris 
forty  or  tifty  years  ago."     It  would  be 
easy,  he  concedes,  (and  he  might  have 
enlarged  his  concession)  to  suggest  a 
score  of  names  that  might  be  added 
or  left  out.     But,  "If  the  process  of 
revision  were  once  begun,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  see  where  it  would  end,  or  how 


any  two  minds  could  agree  in  classi- 
fying five  or  six  hundred  names." 
Finally  the  Calendar  was  never  de- 
signed to  be  "A  class-list  of  rival 
candidates  for  fame.  It  is  in  no  sense 
exclusive  ;  it  is  provisional ;  and  it  is 
in  every  sense  relative — framed  with 
a  view,  not  to  personal  merit,  but  to 
historical  results."  Such  as  it  is,  no 
attempt  has  been  made  to  revise  it ; 
and  on  the  whole  the  balance  of  opinion 
is  likely  to  go  with  Mr.  Harrison 
that,  "As  to  at  least  ^yq  hundred 
names  in  the  whole  list  competent 
authorities  would  probably  agree." 

There   is  ample   entertainment    in 
this  book    both   for    those    who   are 
determined  to  scoff  and  for  those  who, 
if  they  can,  would  pray.    The  gentlest 
eye,  for  instance,  may  stare  to  read 
that  only  by  the  school  of  Comte  has 
Aristotle's  greatness  been  fully  recog- 
nised, and  that  only  in  Comte  himself 
has  the  intellect  of  Aristotle  found  its 
match.      Even    a    modern    geologist 
might   learn  a   lesson   in   "cocksure- 
ness  "  from  the  unwavering  precision 
with  which  the  history  of  Moses,  and 
of  the  Bible  generally,  is  mapped  out. 
Professor  Tyndall  has  laughed  at  the 
divines  of  the  Westminster  Assembly 
for  the  sturdiness  of  their  belief  in 
what  they  accepted  as  the  Word  of 
God ;   but   the   stoutest   of   them  all 
sinks  to  a  very  Hamlet  beside  these 
modern  philosophers.     Yet,  after  all, 
who   should    be   positive    if  not   the 
Positivist  ?     What  at  any  rate  should 
give  the  book  an  interest  and  import- 
ance for  the  mere  idle  reader,  for  him 
who  has  never  heard  the  mystic  due- 
dame,  or  hearing  has  not  understood, 
is  the  remarkable  excellence  of  its  bio- 
graphies.    They  are  not  all,  of  course, 
of  equal  merit;  some  no  doubt,  even 
when    one   considers    the    conditions 
under  which  the  writers  have  laboured, 
are    inadequate ;     but,    remembering 
what     those     conditions     were,     the 
average  standard  is  surprisingly  high. 
This  is  especially  the  case  with  those 
marked   by  Mr.   Harrison's    initials. 
No   one  needs   to   be  told  that   Mr. 
Harrison,  besides  being  a  philosopher 


390 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, 


and  a  politician,  is  a' so  an  accomplished 
man  of  letters.  But  the  most  ex- 
perienced man  of  letters  might  fail 
without  disgrace  in  this  particular 
kind  of  work.  Little  books  are  often 
laughed  at  as  a  sort  of  tinned  intel- 
lectual meats ;  but  many  have  no 
doubt  found  how  extremely  difficult 
it  is  to  write  them  well.  To  tell  the 
story  of  even  a  great  man's  life  in 
some  two  hundred  pages  or  so  might 
seem  to  those  who  have  never  tried 
an  easy  matter  enough ;  but  it  will 
not  seem  so  to  any  who  have  tried  it. 
When  the  essence  of  the  story  has  to 
be  compressed  into  a  page  or  two,  or 
even  less,  the  difficulty  is  increased  a 
thousandfold.  Of  course  this  Cal- 
endar does  not  aim  at  being  a  critical, 
still  less  at  being  a  biographical  dic- 
tionary. Yet  something  of  biography, 
something  of  criticism,  has  to  be  in- 
cluded in  each  one  of  these  five  hundred 
and  fifty-eight  articles.  To  present 
the  essence  of  the  man's  work,  that 
which  has  ensured  him  his  title  to  a 
place  in  the  Calendar,  whether  it  was 
done  in  public  affairs,  in  literature, 
science,  or  art,  has  been  the  purpose 
of  this  book.  No  unprejudiced  reader 
will,  I  think,  deny  that  it  has  been  in 
the  main  accomplished  with  singular 
force,  felicity,  and  precision.  It  would 
be  hard,  for  instance,  to  better  within 
the  same  compass  Mr.  Harrison's 
estimate  of  Scott  and  the  real  value 
and  importance  of  his  work  : 

The  errors  of  this  noble  nature  were 
inwoven  with  his  whole  conception  of 
life.  But  at  bottom  the  soul  of  Walter 
Scott  was  true,  generous,  warm,  humane, 
and  tender  as  any  that  ever  spoke  in  im- 
mortal tones  to  men.  Some  of  his  happiest 
creations  have  not  been  surpassed  in  their 
own  vein  by  Shakespeare  himself.  Some 
of  his  finest  scenes  have  Homeric  simplicity 
and  charm  ;  his  best  tales  have  refashioned 
the  historic  judgment  of  our  age.  The 
form  in  which  the  mighty  iniprovisatore 
pours  out  his  story  is  too  often  flaccid,  and 
at  times  it  descends  to  conventional  bom- 
bast. Scott  was  no  accurate  historian,  and 
hardly  a  learned  antiquary  ;  and  it  may  be 
that  no  one  of  his  novels  is  a  complete 
masterpiece  of  the  best  that  he  could  do. 
Don  Quixote^   Tom  Jones,  even  Manzoni's 


The  Bethrothed,  are  all  more  finished  works 
of  literary  craft  ;  but  the  glory  of  the 
Waverley  cycle  is  the  Shakesperian  wealth 
of  imagination,  the  historic  glow  which 
lights  up,  one  after  another,  eight  centuries 
of  the  past,  the  unerring  instinct  by  which, 
in  all  its  essentials,  the  spirit  of  chivalry 
is  revealed  to  a  sordid  age. 

Nor  is  Mr.  Harrison  less  sound  in  his 
estimate  of  Byron  ;  sound  both  in  his 
judgment  of  the  great  poet  and  in  his 
judgment  of  the  little  spirit  which 
would  refuse  him  the  name  of  poet. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  renew  the  long 
debate  as  to  the  poetry  of  Byron,  of  which 
the  highest  qualities  have  hardly  yet  been 
understood,  and  of  which  the  glaring  de- 
fects are  now  pedantically  exaggerated. 
Keats,  Shelley,  and  Tennyson,  their  in- 
terpreters and  their  imitators,  have  made 
our  age  exacting  in  the  matter  of  musical 
cadence  and  subtle  mastery  of  phrase  such 

as  mark  the  highest  level  of  poetry 

He  n'evor  seems  to  have  realised  the  art  of 
poetry  as  a  mysterious  alembic  of  musical 
language  ;  but  he  poured  out  a  torrent  of 
impetuous  thoughts  in  verse  with  the  same 
reckless  profusion  as  did  Scott  in  prose. 
And  both,  we  are  now  told,  gave  us  rank 
conmioK place,  because  they  spoke  in  hot 
haste,  using  the  first  phrase  that  rose  to  the 

lip It  would  be  an  error  to  make 

too  much  of  Byron's  weakness  in  form. 
The  invocations  to  Athens,  to  Rome,  to  the 
Sea,  and  some  of  the  occasional  lyrics  show 
that  he  held  the  magic  lyre  of  the  poet, 
though  it  was  of  narrow  compass  and  too 
often  rang  out  a  false  note.  Even  at  his 
best  Byron  can  hardly  ^vTite  twenty  lines 
without  stumbling,  and  is  at  all  times 
perilously  near  the  prose  of  rhetoric.  But 
his  conceptions  are  neither  prosaic,  diluted, 
nor  commonplace.  And  conceptions,  not 
form,  are  the  bone  and  sinew  of  all  high 
poetry.  Take  Byron's  work  as  a  whole, 
and  weigh  its  mass,  its  variety,  its  glow, 
its  power  of  stirring  nations,  and  of  creat- 
ing new  modes  of  thought — its  social, 
national,  and  popular  influence — its  effec- 
tive inspiration  on  men — and  we  must 
place  him,  as  did  Scott  and  Goethe,  among 
the  great  poetic  forces  of  modern  ages.  To 
judge  Byron  truly,  we  must  look  on  him 
with  European  and  not  with  insular  eye- 
sight. His  power,  his  directness,  his  social 
enthusiasm,  fire  the  imagination  of  Europe, 
which  is  less  troubled  than  we  are  to-day 
about  his  metrical  poverty  and  conven- 
tional phrase.  To  Italians  he  is  almost  more 
an  Italian  than  an  English  poet;  to  Greeks 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, 


391 


he  is  the  true  author  and  prophet  of  tlieir 
patriotic  sentiments  ;  and  in  France  and  in 
Germany  he  is  now  more  valued  and 
studied  than  by  liis  countrymen  in  a 
generation  when  subtle  involution  of  idea 
and  artful  cadence  of  metre  are  the  sole 
qualifications  for  the  laurel  crown.  When 
this  literary  purism  is  over,  Byron  will 
be  seen  as  the  poet  of  the  revolutionary 
movement  which  early  in  the  nineteenth 
century  awoke  a  new  Renascence. 

The  other  day  I  read  in  a  weekly 
paper  a  grave  remonstrance  to  some 
one  who  had  written  a  book  about 
poetry  in  which  he  had  dared  to  praise 
Byron.  The  author  was  reminded 
that  "The  higher  modern  criticism 
would  not  accept "  Byron.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  know  exactly  where  to  look 
for  the  higher  modern  criticism.  There 
is  a  vast  amount  of  criticism  about ; 
much  of  it  is  very  modern  ;  all  of  it  is, 
in  one  sense,  very  high.  But  Matthew 
Arnold  certainly  did  not  refuse  to 
accept  Byron ;  his  criticism  can  hardly 
yet  have  taken  an  antique  complexion, 
and  its  standard  was  certainly  not 
low.  And  here,  in  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison,  we  find  another  man  of 
letters,  of  wide  reading,  of  catholic 
sympathies  (in  letters  at  all  events), 
of  sound  judgment,  also  not  refusing 
to  accept  Byron.  So  the  poor  author 
aforesaid  may  take  heart  of  grace  and 
continue  to  nourish  his  admiration  for 
a  great  poet  in  spite  of  that  mysterious 
quantity  known  as  "the  higher  modern 
criticism." 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  ex- 
amples of  this  curiosa  felicltas,  of  the 
happy  art  with  which  the  essential 
facts  have  been  selected  and  expressed, 
and  not  less  succinctly  in  biography 
than  in  criticism.  But  these  two 
must  sufiice.  They  have  been  chosen 
because  on  these  two  men,  Byron  and 
Scott,  more  probably  has  been  written 
than  on  any  other  of  the  great  figures 
of  tliis  centurv.  Mr.  Harrison  has  of 
course  made  no  now  discoveries,  nor 
professed  to  make  any;  his  criticism 
is  not  "original,"  nor  could  it  be. 
The  world,  it  has  been  said,  gene- 
rally gives  its  admiration,  not  to  the 
man    who    does   wh:it    nobody    even 


attempts  to  do,  but  to  the  man  who 
does  best  what  multitudes  do  well. 
If  this  be  so,  it  should  certainly  give 
its  admiration  to  what  Mr.  Harrison 
has  done  in  this  book.  For  what  mul- 
titudes are  now  doing,  and  many,  no 
doubt,  doing  well,  he,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  has  done  best. 


III. 

Dn.  Boyd's  new  book,  Twenty-Five 
Years   at   St.  Andrews y  is    sure   of   a 
welcome   from    all    who    recall    with 
fondness  TJie  Recollections  of  a  Country 
Parson.     It  is  an  entertaining  medley 
of  stories  old  and  new,  of  gossip  about 
men  great  and  small,  of  the  author's 
own  predilections  and  prejudices  eccle- 
siastical, literary,  and  social,  expressed 
in  that  style   which  A.  K.  H.  B.   has 
made  popular  in  many  volumes.  When 
he  inclines  to  praise  he  does  not  stint 
his  epithets,  and,  as  becomes  a  minister 
of   the  gospel  of  peace  and   goodwill, 
he    mostly   inclines    that    way.       He 
quotes    Professor    Baynes,    the    late 
editor  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica, 
as    one   who   never   spoke   ill  of   his 
friends,  unlike  those  "  Keally  good  and 
able  men,  in  listening  to  whose  talk 
about  their  acquaintance  the  words  of 
Dickens  came  as  a  refrain  at  the  end 
of  each  sentence,   *Let  him  apply  to 
Wilkins  Micawber,  and  he   will  hear 
something  not   at  all  to    his  advant- 
age.' "    It  was  not  so,  on  one  occasion 
at  least,  with  "  the  admirable  Shairp," 
who,  when  **a  wave  of  what  is  called 
revivaV*    passed    over    St.   Andrews, 
became  suddenly  moved  to  an  extreme 
sensitiveness    of   conscience :    "  Only, 
somewhat   perversely,    his   conscience 
pointed  out  TuUoch's  sins,  and  not  his 
own.      And    he    penitently   confessed 
these  to  many  friends."     But  TuUoch 
only  smiled  ;  for  in  truth  "  The  very 
worst  that  could  be  said  of  him  was 
that  he  really  could  not  be  much  in- 
terested in  Messrs.  Moody  and  Sankey." 
Dr.  Boyd  does  not  show  himself  alto- 
gether inappreciative   of    Micawber's 
method ;  but  on  the  whole  he  may  be 
allowed  to    do   his    spiriting    gently 


392 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, 


enough  when  his  conscience  compels 
him  to  do  it  at  all.  Of  only  one 
man  mentioned  by  name  in  this 
volume  does  he  find  it  difficult  to 
speak  any  good  thing,  of  William  Al- 
lingham,  somewhUe  editor  of  Fraser'a 
Magazine.  An  editor  is  the  natural 
prey  of  gods  and  men,  and  poor 
Allingham  does  seem  to  have  been 
the  most  unconscionable  member  of 
his  unconscionable  class.  "  Quite 
the  most  irritating  editor  I  have 
known,"  Dr.  Boyd  calls  him,  and  no 
wonder.  He  not  only  lost  the  manu- 
script of  one  of  A.  K.  H.  B.'s  best 
essays  (it  is  always  the  best  that  are 
lost),  but,  which  was  still  more  intoler- 
able, he  would  alter  those  he  did  not 
lose,  and  always  for  the  worse, — of 
course  ;  when  did  editor  ever  alter  for 
the  better?  "He  was  soon  got  rid 
of,"  says  Dr.  Boyd  with  something 
almost  of  an  unholy  satisfaction.  "  I 
should  have  left  Fraser  had  he  not 
done  so."  Well,  well ;  poor  Allingham 
has  gone,  and  Fraser  with  him.  This 
seems  really  the  only  recollection  of 
his  five-and-twenty  years  that  has 
power  to  ruffle  our  good  gossip's  seren- 
ity. Truly  said  the  Shepherd,  "All 
contributors  are  in  a  manner  fierce." 
Bat  even  to  his  editor  Dr.  Boyd  cannot 
be  wholly  fierce  :  "  I  liked  some  of  his 
poetry  and  read  his  llainbles." 

The  volume  ('tis  only  an  instalment) 
is  full  of  stories,  and  many  of  them 
are  extremely  entertaining,  character- 
istic both  of  the  men  of  whom  they 
are  told  and  of  him  who  tells  them. 
'  Here,  for  instance,  is  one  of  Dean 
/  Stanley,  of  which  perhaps  some  reader 
may  be  able  to  help  Dr.  Boyd  to  an 
explanation. 

An  incident  recurs  of  that  day  on  which 
we  went  round  the  Abbe  v.  I  had  told 
Dean  Edwards  that  he  was  to  see  one  of 
our  great  preachers  :  indeed,  after  Caird, 
quite  our  most  popular  man.  But  when 
the  Dean  beheld  MacGregor,  he  was  disap- 
pointed, and  said  so.  For  MacGrt'gor  is 
small  of  stature  :  and  though  his  face  is 
very  fine  and  expressive,  it  was  difficult  to 
take  in  that  the  little  figure,  wandering 
about  the  church  a  good  deal  in  the  rear 
of  the  party,  was  the  telling  orator  that 


Edinburgh  knows.  But  our  sight-seeing 
over,  the  little  company  parted:  only 
Dean  Edwards  going  with  my  daughter 
and  me  to  Stanley's  drawing-room  for  a 
little  space.  Here  I  said  to  Stanley, 
"  You  have  heard  MacQregor  :  I  want  you 
to  tell  this  young  Dean  that  he  is  indeed  a 
great  orator,  though  he  looked  it  not  to- 
day." Whereupon  Stanley,  in  his  most 
perfervid  manner :  "  Yes,  he  is  a  great 
orator.  You  can  no  more  judge  what  he 
is  in  a  pulpit  from  seeing  him  waddling 
about  Westminster  Abbey,  than  you  can 
judge  of  St.  Paul  from  his  Epistles."  I 
cannot  say  that  to  this  day  I  nave  fully 
caught  Stanley's  meaning.  But  I  have 
given  his  very  words. 

But  to  all  the  good  stories  that  Dr. 
Boyd  tells  perhaps  the  palm  should  be 
given — for  reasons  which  cannot  fail 
to  be  fully  caught — to  these  two. 

At  Boarhill  there  was  a  public  dinner 
after  the  duty  was  over.  One  of  the  many 
toasts  was  of  course  the  schoolmaster  :  a 
hardwrought  and  underpaid  man.  In 
Scotland  a  schoolmaster  used  to  be  called  a 
Dominie.  As  we  arose  to  do  honour  to 
the  toast,  a  Heritor,  who  ages  before  had 
taken  his  degree,  and  still  retained  some 
classical  leaven,  desired  to  utter  some 
befitting  sentiment.  He  had  somewhat 
forgot  his  Latin.  But,  holding  high  his 
glass,  he  exclaimed  with  deep  feeling, 
Domine^  dirige  nos  /  It  sounded  very 
appropriate.  I  remember  a  like  case  in 
which,  when  an  unmelodious  bell  was 
loudly  rung,  to  the  torture  of  sensitive 
ears,  one  whose  scholarship  had  grown 
rusty,  exclaimed,  "Ah,  as  Virgil  says, 
Belltty  horrida  Bella." 

One  more  must  be  added.  When 
the  late  Duke  of  Buccleuch  delivered 
his  address  as  President  of  the  British 
Association,  which  in  1867  held  its 
meetings  in  Dundee,  Sir  Roderick 
Murchison  was  present  and  made  a 
speech, — 

In  which  he  appeared  as  anything  but  a 
correct  quoter  of  verse  :  for,  relating  cer- 
tain perplexities  as  to  the  place  of  meeting, 
he  stated  that  finally,  in  the  words  of  the 
beloved  Sh*  Walter  (no  Scot  will  add  the 
surname),  "  We  threw  up  our  bonnets  for 
bonny  Dundee  ! "  Sir  Walter  would  have 
been  surprised  to  hear  the  quotation. 
Bonny  Dundee  was  a  man,  not  a  place  ; 
and  no  such  words  occur  in  the  famous 
song. 


Leaves  from  a  Note-Book 


393 


How  finely  the  author  of  a  certain 
essay  on  Imperfect  Sympathies  had 
appreciated  A.  K.  H.  B. ! 

The  mention  of  Scott's  name  recalls 
a  curious  story  told  here  of  Anthony 
Trollope.  In  the  year  following  that 
in  which  Murchison  gibbeted  himself, 
Trollope  came  to  St.  Andrews  as  the 
guest  of  John  Blackwood.  He  did  not 
please  Dr.  Boyd,  neither  in  looks, 
clothes,  manners,  nor  speech.  But  his 
capital  offence  was  his  verdict  on  the 
Waverley  Novels,  delivered  to  a  party 
of  Scotsmen. 

Mr.  Trollope  said  that  if  any  of  Sir 
Walter's  novels  were  offered  to  any  London 
publisher  of  the  present  day,  it  would  be 
at  once  rejected.  We  listened,  humbly. 
Then  it  was  asked  whether  this  was 
because  time  had  gone  on  and  Sir  Walter 
grown  old-fashioned.  "  Not  a  bit :  it  is 
just  because  they  are  so  dull.*'  .  .  .  The 
tone  was  most  depreciatory  all  through. 
Possibly  it  was  wilfulness  on  the  part  of 
the  critic,  or  a  desire  to  give  his  auditors  a 
slap  in  the  face  ;  for  1  have  in  after  time 
read  a  page  of  Trollope's  on  which  Scott 
was  praised  highly.  It  is  sometimes  very 
difficult  to  know  what  is  a  man's  real  and 
abiding  opinion. 

Certainly  this  was  not  Trollope' s 
abiding  opinion  of  Scott,  whom  I  have 
myself,  and  more  than  once,  heard 
him  praise  as  warmly  as  any  Scotsman 
could  desire.  When  he  was  in  Tas- 
mania, as  the  guest  of  Sir  Charles  Du 
Cane  then  Governor  of   that  Colony, 


he  gave  at  His  Excellency's  request  a 
lecture  on  Sir  Walter  which  was  de- 
scribed to  me  by  one  who  heard  it  as 
a  right  good  and  noble  thing.  And 
in  truth  he  was  far  too  sound  a  judge 
of  his  own  craft  to  think  contemptu- 
ously of  its  greatest  master.  One 
would  like  to  have  heard  Trollope's 
version  of  the  scene  in  Blackwood's 
dining-room.  He  wore  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve,  if  ever  man  did,  and  per- 
haps he  thought  he  had  been  unduly 
"  heckled."  Perhaps  he  had  been  on  the 
links  that  day,  and  had  not  yet  recov- 
ered from  the  shocks  which  he  must 
assuredly  have  experienced  there.  The 
vision  of  Trollope  plying  his  niblick  in 
a  lonely  bunker  is  a  thing  the  imagina- 
tion boggles  at.  He  had  a  downright 
way  of  expressing  himself  on  occasion 
which  to  strangers  was  apt  sometimes 
to  give  offence.  But  those  who  knew 
him  knew  well  that,  as  was  said  of 
Johnson,  there  was  nothing  of  the 
bear  about  him  but  his  skin.  In 
truth  he  has  drawn  his  own  portrait 
to  the  life  in  the  words  he  wrote 
in  his  delightful  Autobiography  of  his 
friend  Sir  Charles  Taylor  :  "A  man 
rough  of  tongue,  brusque  in  his  man- 
ners, odious  to  those  who  disliked  him, 
somewhat  inclined  to  tyranny,  he  was 
the  prince  of  friends,  honest  as  the 
sun,  and  as  open-handed  as  Charity 
itself." 


894 


THE    STRANGER    IN    THE    HOUSE. 


Great  is  the  difference  between  -the 
first  and  the  last  session  of  a  Parlia- 
ment.    When  the  House  of  Commons 
meets  for  the  first  time  after  a  general 
election,  the  scene  is  full  of  novelty 
and  excitement  for  most  of  the  per- 
sons there.    The  old  Members  are  glad 
that  they  have  got  safely  back ;  the 
new    ones   are    delighted    with    their 
position  and  surroundings.     The  wear 
and  tear  of  the  machine  have  not  yet 
made  themselves  felt ;  Death  has  not 
been   taking   deep  and   wide    sweeps 
with  his  scythe ;  the  yoke  of  party  sits 
lightly  on  the  neck  of  the  happy  new- 
comer.    One  great  ambition  of  his  life 
has  been  gratified,  for  at  some  period 
or  other  almost  every   aspiring  mind 
dreams,    if  only   for    a    passing    mo- 
ment, of  finding  a  suitable  arena  for  it- 
self in  the  House  of  Commons.     And 
now  here  are  some  three  hundred  new 
Members    who    have    realised    their 
dreams.     The  magic  dooi-s  swing  open 
before  them,  and  they  have  a  right  to 
take  part  in  the  making  of  all  laws  which 
are  to  govern  their  country.     If  they 
had  no  social  position  before  (a  thing 
that  sometimes  happens)  they  will  get 
one  now.  They  must  be  asked  to  official 
receptions  ;  they  are  entitled  to  be  pre- 
sented at  Court ;  they  are  eligible  for 
the  Reform  or  the  Carlton  Club.     The 
importance  which  is  attached  to  these 
aims  and  objects,  by  people  who  have 
hitherto    been    shut   out   from  them, 
cannot  be  appreciated  by  those  who 
have  no  desire  or  necessity  to  pursue 
them.     Perhaps  there  may  ba   some- 
thing even  better  in  store.     An  ap- 
preciative  Minister   may    be   on   the 
look-out  for  rising  talent.      The  elo- 
quence which  has  won  a  seat  may  win 
an  office.   Genius  is  bound  to  make  its 
way.    Every  Member  enters  the  cham- 
ber flushed  with  victory,  and  confident 
that  he  will  be  able  to  fix  the  atten- 


tion of  the  country  upon  himself  if  he 
can  only  get  a  good  chance.  Hope 
whispers :  "  You  may  look  forward  to 
almost  anything  you  like  here.  Re- 
member that  this  is  the  source  of 
nearly  all  the  honours  and  of  most  of 
the  great  prizes  of  public  life^  not  to 
speak  of  appointments  worth  say  a 
couple  of  thousand  a  year,  and  aU  sorts 
of  good  things  in  the  Colonies."  The 
first  day  of  the  first  Session  almost 
compensates  a  man  for  the  trouble  he 
has  taken  to  secure  his  seat. 

I  happened  to  be  a  spectator  of  the 
scene  when  the  present  Parliament 
came  together  under  these  circum- 
stances. Never  before  had  new  Mem- 
bers  presented  themselves  in  such  for- 
midable numbers.  The  officials  were 
at  their  wits'  ends  to  know  what  to 
do,  and  poor  Sir  Erskine  May,  who 
was  then  the  chief  clerk,  was  almost 
carried  off  his  feet  by  the  invading 
host.  The  doorkeepers  had  been 
obliged  to  let  everybody  pass  unchal- 
lenged. On  these  occasions  no  certi- 
ficate of  election  is  required  or  pro- 
duced, so  that  it  would  be  quite  pos- 
sible for  a  bold  outsider  to  mix  with 
the  throng,  enter  the  House,  and  even 
get  himself  sworn,  if  he  had  audacity 
enough  to  carry  things  through  to  the 
end.  It  is  utterly  impossible  for  any 
one  to  identify  all  the  newly  elected 
Members  for  at  least  two  or  three 
weeks  after  a  Parliament  has  settled 
down  to  its  work.  During  that  time 
the  doorkeepers  take  every  oppor- 
tunity of  **  learning  faces."  The 
Speaker,  during  his  intervals  of  leisure, 
pursues  the  same  course  of  study,  for 
he,  like  the  Chairman  of  Committees, 
must  always  be  ready  to  call  upon 
everybody  by  his  name.  In  the  Par- 
liament of  1885  there  were  over  three 
hundred  Members  who  took  their  seats 
in  the  House  of  Commons  for  the  first 


The  Stranger  in  the  House. 


395 


time.  It  is  no  easy  matter  to  sort  all 
these  out,  to  remember  every  man's 
constituency,  and  to  acquire  a  fair 
knowledge  of  his  personal  peculiarities, 
l^'or  some  Members  are  very  peculiar 
indeed,  and  require  to  be  handled  with 
<j:reat  care  and  judgment.  After  the 
lirst  day  the  doorkeepers  can,  and  do, 
stop  any  one  who  is  making  his  way 
past  them,  and  ask  him  for  his  name. 
Occasionally  a  Member  is  to  be  heard 
of  who  so  rarely  puts  in  an  appearance 
that  even  the  doorkeepers  never  get  to 
l^e  quite  sure  about  his  identity.  Such 
cases,  however,  in  these  days,  when  con- 
stituents learn  all  about  the  division- 
lists  from  the  local  papers,  are  few  and 
far  between. 

On  the  ninth  of  last  month  there 
were  a  dozen  new  Members,  for  death 
had  made  havoc  during  the  Recess. 
Undoubtedly  it  was  not  a  cheerful 
scene.  People  on  both  sides  of  the 
House  come  to  know  each  other  pretty 
well  after  two  or  three  years,  and  they 
cannot  see  the  disappearance  of  one 
after  another  without  regret.  Politi- 
cal feeling  very  seldom  degenerates 
into  personal  animosity  within  the 
House  itself.  There  is  occasionally  a 
sour  curmudgeon  who  will  not  have 
any  social  relations  with  any  one  from 
the  opposite  camp ;  but,  generally  speak- 
ing, a  kindly  feeling  grows  up  among 
all  the  combatants,  and  the  asperi- 
ties of  the  platform  are  forgotten. 
Mr.  Parnell  was  not  a  curmudgeon, 
but  he  would  not  upon  principle 
have  anything  whatever  to  say  to 
English  Members,  with  a  very  few 
exceptions.  Even  w^hen  they  sat  near 
him,  and  were  supporting  him,  he 
systematically  ignored  their  existence. 
He  did  occasionally  unbend,  especially 
in  the  smoking-room;  and  I  remember 
being  profoundly  astonished  once  to 
find  him  engaged  in  holding  what  was 
for  him  an  animated  conversation 
with  an  English  Tory  Member  on 
some  methods  of  agriculture  pursued 
in  Ireland.  He  usually  preferred  the 
strangers'  smoking-room  down  stairs, 
so  that  we  outsiders  could  now  and 
then  have  an  opportunity  of  contem- 


plating him.  When  his  seat  had  to  be 
contested,  his  own  friends  could  not 
save  it,  and  a  bitter  opponent  marched 
up  to  the  table  on  the  ninth  of  Feb- 
ruary and  was  sworn  in  as  his  suc- 
cessor. Who  could  have  believed  that 
possible  eighteen  months  ago  1  Among 
Lord  Melbourne's  letters  there  is  one 
in  which  he  writes  with  his  usual 
plainness,  **The  people  of  Ireland  are 

not  such  d fools  as  the  people  of 

England.  When  they  place  confidence 
they  do  not  withdraw  it  at  the  next 
instant."  And  he  goes  on  to  say: 
"  When  they  trust  a  man,  when  they 
are  really  persuaded  that  he  has  their 
interest  at  heart,  they  do  not  throw 
him  ofP  because  he  does  something 
which  they  cannot  immediately  under- 
stand or  explain."  When  one  thinks 
of  Mr.  Parnell's  experiences  during 
the  last  months  of  his  life,  and  recalls 
what  has  happened  since,  one  is  in- 
clined to  think  that  Lord  Melbourne 
might  have  modified  his  opinion  if  he 
had  known  as  much  as  we  do.  In 
any  case,  it  is  curious  enough  now  to 
look  down  upon  the  Irish  benches. 
There  are  at  least  two  distinct  parties 
there,  unequally  divided  in  point  of 
numbers,  but  containing  men  of  real 
ability  in  both.  There  was  a  talk  on 
the  first  day  of  their  having  come  to  a 
friendly  settlement  of  all  their  differ- 
ences. In  the  nature  of  things  such 
a  settlement  is  at  present  out  of  the 
question.  The  wounds  which  have 
been  made  on  both  sides  are  still 
bleeding.  They  will  combine,  when  it 
suits  them,  against  the  common  foe ; 
but  the  prospect  of  a  permanent  treaty 
of  peace  is  exceedingly  remote.  Mr. 
Timothy  Healy  and  Mr.  John  Redmond 
will  not  be  found  reclining  together 
under  the  same  fig  tree  while  this  Par- 
liament lasts. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  Session, 
there  was,  as  I  have  said,  an  unmis- 
takable sense  of  depression  all  round. 
The  Speaker's  list  of  the  dead  was  a 
long  and  mournful  one,  and  when  the 
actual  business  of  the  day  began,  it 
had  to  be  intermingled  with  many 
references  to  the  calamity  which  had 


396 


The  Stranger  in  the  House. 


fallen  so  suddenly  and  so  heavily  upon 
the  Royal  Family.      I  heard  all  the 
iloges  that  were  pronounced,  including 
those  in  the  House  of  Lords — where 
the   Stranger   is    not   allowed   to   sit 
down,  but  may  stand  huddled  up  with 
others  in  a  sort  of  glorified  cattle-pen. 
Lord    Salisbury   performed    his    task 
with  all  due  gravity,  and  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire   was    equally   grave,   and 
perhaps  a  trifle  more  sympathetic.     Jn 
the  other  House,  Sir  William  Harcourt 
read  a  carefully-prepared  address,  and 
Mr.  Balfour  tried  to  do  his  best  with 
something  which  was  evidently  beyond 
his  resources.    The  truth  is  that  there 
is  only  one  man  alive  who  can  rise 
to  the  requisite  height  on  such  occa- 
sions as  these,  and  give  to  the  formal 
utterances  of  sympathy  a  lofty,  almost 
a   religious  tone.      That  man  is  Mr. 
Gladstone.     He  alone  can  strike  the 
true   note.      Everybody  recognises  it 
when  it  is  struck,  but  no  imitation  of  it 
can  deceive  the  ear.  But  Mr.  Gladstone 
had  not  returned    to    England   when 
Parliament  met,  and  there  was  no  one 
to  fill  his  place.     When  it  came,  how- 
ever,  to    doing   justice    to   poor   Mr. 
Smith,    Sir    William    Harcourt    was 
quite   equal  to  the  occasion,  and    he 
even  contrived  to  pay  a  compliment  to 
Mr.  Balfour,  and  to  make  it  sound  as 
if  he  meant  it.     After  all  that,  it  was 
not    surprising    that    the    old   Adam 
broke  out,  and  that  the  fighting-man 
of     the     Glads  tonian     party    turned 
fiercely   upon   the   Chancellor   of   the 
Exchequer    and     administered     "  the 
stick."     Mr.    Goschen   may  be    quite 
happy  under  these  visitations,  but  if 
so    his   appearance    is    calculated    to 
deceive  the  spectator.     He  is  nervous, 
fidgety,  restless ;    he  cannot  even  as- 
sume  the  appearance  of  indifference. 
In  that  respect,  if  in  no  other,  he  is 
very  like  Mr.   Gladstone,  whose  face 
when   he    is    being    attacked    images 
every  emotion  of  his  mind.     Astonish- 
ment, indignation,  anger   are  all  de- 
picted  upon    it   without   disguise,    so 
that    the   great  gladiator's   humblest 
antagonist    can    always   tell   whether 
his  shot  has  told.      There  is  no  one 


now  who  can  wear  the  stony  mask  of 
complete  indifference  so  naturally  as 
Mr.  Disraeli  succeeded  in  doing,  though 
Mr.  Chamberlain  tries  very  hard  to 
perform  the  feat.  Trying  hard,  how- 
ever, is  the  very  way  not  to  do  this 
particular  thing. 

Mr.    Chamberlain    this   year   is    a 
personage   of  greater  importance  than 
ever,   for   he   is   now   the   recognised 
leader  of  a  party,  and  it  must  be  said 
in  all  candour  that   he   is   evidently 
fully   conscious   of    the    fact.     There 
are  now  five  party  leaders  in  the  House, 
not   reckoning    Mr.  Labouchere,  who 
would  not  altogether  approve  of  being 
omitted  from  the  list.      This  multipli- 
cation   of    leaders    is    a    very   great 
inconvenience  in  practical  politics,  for 
it    prevents    any    of    those    friendly 
arrangements  for  the  management  of 
business,    and     the    time    at    which 
divisions  may  be  taken,  which  formerly 
were  always  possible.     There  are  too 
many    Richmonds   in    the    field,  and 
the    tendency   is   ^till    for    more    to 
spring  up.     The  papers  often  discuss 
what   they   call   "  Mr.   Chamberlain's 
position."     To  the  stranger  who  looks 
on   at   the   scene   from    an   impartial 
point  of  view,  that  position  must  cer- 
tainly appear   a    highly   curious,  and 
even    an   anomalous  one.     From   the 
front  bench  of  the  Liberal  party,  only 
a    pace    or    two   removed   from   Mr. 
Gladstone,  there  rises  a  man  who  pro- 
ceeds in  the  coolest  manner  to  pour 
out    all   sorts   of    sneers,   reproaches, 
and  bitter  accusations  on  the  heads  of 
his  former  colleagues  and  neighbours. 
Such  a  fiank  fire  as  this  must  be  ex- 
ceedingly galling,  and  that  those  who 
are  exposed  to  it  feel  it  severely  they 
take  no  pains  to  conceal.     Even  Mr. 
Morley,  who  seems  to  have  as  little 
personal  or  political  bitterness  in  him 
as  any  man  in  the  assembly,  has  cried 
out  against  it  more  than  once.       That 
probably  adds  to  Mr.    Chamberlain's 
enjoyment  of  the   situation.     It  cer- 
tainly amuses  the  Conservatives.     But 
how  they  would  like  to  have  a  man 
planted,  not  only  in  their  midst,  but 
on  their  front  bench,  who  was  always 


The  Stranger  in  the  House. 


397 


making  their  lives  a  burden  to  them 
is  another  question.  They  would 
probably  not  be  quite  so  patient  un- 
der the  infliction  as  the  Gladstonians 
have  shown  themselves. 

Mr.  Chamberlain's  position  is  prob- 
ably not  quite  what  it  would  be  if  he 
could  reconstruct  it  from  top  to  bottom. 
It  is  complicated  with  many  difficulties, 
perhaps  with  some  anxieties.  That 
Mr.  Chamberlain  can  ever  be  in  per- 
manent alliance  with  the  Conservatives 
is  not  possible,  because  some  day  the 
thorny  issue  of  Disestablishment  must 
come  up,  with  some  others  of  almost 
equal  gravity.  No  compromise  on 
these  is  ever  to  be  reached.  They  may 
for  the  present  be  postponed,  but  that  is 
all  that  any  one  has  a  right  to  ask  or 
expect.  Where,  then,  is  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain's permanent  home?  At  the 
head  of  a  new  party  1  No  wise  man 
believes  in  new  parties.  It  cannot  be 
in  Tory  ranks.  Will  it  be  with  the 
Liberals  once  more  ?  Much  must  be 
forgiven  and  forgotten  on  both  sides 
before  tfiat  can  happen.  The  great 
bulk  of  the  Liberal  party,  as  it  stands 
to  day,  would  rather  be  led  by  the 
youngest  man  in  its  ranks  than  by 
Mr.  Chamberlain.  The  depth  of  feel- 
ing against  him  can  only  be  under- 
stood by  those  who  are  able  to  get 
behind  the  scenes  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  Nothing  of  this  sort  was 
ever  exhibited  towards  Lord  Harting- 
ton.  Any  one  who  lieard  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain's speech  on  the  third  day  of 
the  present  Session  might,  from  that 
circumstance  alone,  have  got  some  in- 
sight into  the  cause  of  this  difference. 
Let  me  be  permitted  to  say  that  I 
have  a  great  admiration  for  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain, but  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
there  is  a  certain  vein  in  him  which 
now  and  then  crops  out,  and  which, 
when  it  does  make  its  appearance,  is 
anything  but  lovely  to  look  upon. 
Shall  we  call  it  self-assertion,  arro- 
gance, or  vulgarity  ?  Perhaps  the  last 
word  would  be  chosen  by  severe  critics 
to  express  what  I  mean.  Now  in  the 
speech  of  February  11th  this  repel- 
lent characteristic  was  most  marked. 


It  was  Mr.  Chamberlain's  first  speech 
as  leader  of  the  Liberal  Unionists. 
Evidently  he  was  anxious  to  show  the 
sort  of  leader  he  was  going  to  make. 
There  had  been  too  much,  he  seemed  to 
think,  of  calmness  and  dignity.  What 
men  wanted  to  see  now  was  the  full 
play  of  the  tomahawk  and  the  scalping- 
knife.  And  these  were  brought  out 
with  much  parade  and  show,  and  the 
calmness  which  even  Mr.  Chamberlain 
sometimes  thinks  it  desirable  to  assume 
was  thrown  aside.  He  jumped  into  the 
ring  with  a  ferocity  which  might  have 
been  more  effective  if  it  had  not  been 
so  very  obvious  that  a  good  deal  of  it 
consisted  of  mere  acting.  And  at  such 
times  Mr.  Chamberlain's  entire  man- 
ner, and  even  his  voice,  and  his  over- 
elaborate  method  of  pronunciation, 
reveal  the  artificial  nature  of  the  per- 
formance. He  quotes  scraps  of  Latin  and 
French,  but  never  as  if  the  weapons  come 
naturally  to  his  hands.  He  has  a  way 
of  suddenly  elevating  his  right  arm,  and 
then  dropping  it  as  suddenly  with  a 
loud  smack  against  his  leg,  reminding 
one  irresistibly  of  the  action  of  a  rail- 
way signal.  He  turns  towards  one  of 
his  old  associates  whom  he  is  attack- 
ing as  if  he  meant  to  wither  him  up 
then  and  there,  and  his  sarcasms  fall, 
not  in  that  apparently  casual  and  un- 
premeditated manner  which  alone  can 
drive  them  home,  but  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  has  been  rehearsing  the 
whole  thing,  attitude,  gestures,  and 
everything  else,  before  his  mirror. 
This  only  happens  when  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain is  at  his  worst,  and  decidedly 
he  was  at  his  worst  on  the  occasion  in 
question.  He  can  make  huge  mistakes 
in  taste.  I  remember  that  when  eulo- 
giums  were  being  pronounced  on  Mr. 
Bright,  after  the  death  of  that  dis- 
tinguished man — in  whom,  by  the  bye, 
there  never  was  visible  the  faintest 
trace  of  vulgarity, — Mr.  Chamberlain 
joined  in  the  expressions  of  sorrow. 
He  told  the  House  that  Birmingham 
had  never  allowed  Mr.  Bright  to  pay 
his  election  expenses.  Remember  and 
praise  Mr.  Bright  if  you  will,  but  do 
not  forget  that  Birmingham  paid  his 


398 


The  Stranger  in  the  House, 


expenses.  It  would  have  occurred  to 
few  men  at  such  a  moment  to  throw 
in  such  a  consideration  as  that. 

Everybody,  however,  makes  a  slip 
at  times,  and  in  spite  of  all  that  Mr. 
Chamberlain  has  done  in  that  direc- 
tion, he  remains  a  great  power  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  To  play  on  that 
difficult  instrument  requires  extra- 
ordinary abilities,  but  when  once  the 
mastery  has  been  acquired,  it  gives 
the  possessor  an  advantage  which  he 
need  never  wholly  lose.  He  knows 
when  to  speak,  he  knows  when  to 
stop,  he  can  fall  in  with  the  prevailing 
mood  of  the  House,  he  can  express 
what  nine  men  out  of  ten  in  it  are 
thinking,  he  can  make  himself  the 
mouthpiece  of  its  desires,  its  feelings, 
and  its  passions.  While  others  are 
rambling  about  in  a  confused  and 
blunderiug  manner,  he  goes  straight 
to  the  mark.  He  takes  care  that 
there  shall  be  point  and  directness  in 
everything  that  he  says.  He  must  have 
great  address  in  covering  up  the  weak 
points  of  his  own  case  and  in  bringing 
out  in  the  strongest  relief  those  of  the 
person  he  is  criticising.  He  must  be 
in  earnest,  or  have  the  art  of  per- 
suading men  that  he  is.  All  this 
has  been  thoroughly  mastered  by 
Mr.  Chamberlain,  and  as  a  mere  de- 
bater I,  as  an  old  frequenter  of  the 
House,  should  be  strongly  disposed  to 
put  him  first.  Mr.  Gladstone  is  so 
much  more  than  a  mere  debater  that 
it  would  be  wrong  to  bring  him  within 
this  category  at  all.  Next  to  Mr. 
Chamberlain  must  be  ranked  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill,  and  then,  I  think. 
Sir  William  Harcourt  would  have  to 
be  entered.  After  that  there  are 
several  who  stand  on  about  the  same 
level,  though  doubtless  Mr.  Balfour 
is  shooting  ahead  of  most  of  them. 
Public  opinion  appears  to  be  that  he 
is  already  first.  I  am  pretty  sure 
that  this  view  is  not  shared  by  Mr. 
Balfour  himself,  and  it  certainly  is 
not  entertained  by  the  House  of 
Commons. 

But  Mr.  Chamberlain's  speech  was 
not   the  only  disappointment  of    the 


early  days  of  this  Session.  Everything 
was  a  disappointment,  especially  to 
the  Gladstonian  forces.  A  mighty  raid 
upon  the  Government  had  been  looked 
for.  Lord  Salisbury  was  to  be  made 
to  feel  that  a  dissolution  was  the  only 
resource  left  open  to  him.  Very  likely 
there  would  be  an  explosion  even  on 
the  very  first  day  which  would  shatter 
the  Administration  to  pieces.  A  great 
crowd  came  down  in  expectation  of 
seeing  something  of  this  kind.  Poli- 
ticians in  a  state  of  eager  expectation 
are  ready  to  believe  almost  anything, 
and  there  were  unquestionably  many 
Gladstonians  who  looked  for  some 
decisive  stroke  at  the  outset  of 
the  Session.  But  the  Ministry,  if 
anything,  seemed  to  get  stronger  day 
by  day.  The  attacks  upon  it  were 
never  very  brisk  or  effective.  Sir 
William  Harcourt  had  taken  a  good 
deal  of  pains,  as  was  proved  by  the 
immense  sheaf  of  manuscript  before 
him,  to  frame  his  indictment,  but  his 
blows  fell  wide  of  the  mark,  except 
when  they  were  directed  at  Mr. 
Goschen.  As  for  the  Irish  debates 
which  quickly  followed,  they  were  a 
decided  help  to  the  Government.  It 
may  safely  be  said  that  they  always 
are.  Something  or  other  is  pretty 
sure  to  arise  which  will  shock  or  alarm 
the  more  moderate  among  the  English 
Home  Rulers,  and  which  will  supply 
the  Conservatives  with  fresh  ammuni- 
tion. The  long  discussion  on  the 
demand  for  the  release  of  the  dyna- 
miters, and  that  which  followed  on  a 
motion  of  Mr.  Sexton's  bringing  up 
the  dangerous  subject  of  Home  Rule 
mixed  with  the  question  of  Land 
Purchase,  were  worth  a  great  deal  to 
the  Ministry.  It  may  be  asked.  How 
is  it,  since  the  result  was  so  well  fore- 
seen, that  the  regular  leaders  of  the 
Opposition  did  not  prevent  these 
debates?  That,  indeed,  is  a  painful 
theme  to  those  same  leaders.  The 
Irish  parties  are  completely  beyond 
their  control,  even  now  that  it  is  to 
their  great  interest  to  act  together. 
Ireland,  as  represented  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  is   already  a  Republic, 


Tlie  Stranger  in  the  House, 


399 


where  one  man  is  as  good  as  another 
and  everybody  does  what  he  likes. 
There  is  a  "union  of  hearts/'  it  is 
true,  or  at  any  rate  we  are  told  on  good 
authority  that  it  is  true  ;  but  it  is 
only  available  for  speeches  on  the 
platform.  In  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  in  the  practical  management  of 
parties,  it  is  not  worth  an  Irishman's 
old  shoe. 

There  must  be  times  when  the  most 
sanguine  of  the  recognised  and  official 
leaders  are  filled  with  the  gravest 
apprehensions  for  the  future.  How 
can  they  ever  hope  to  work  success- 
fully with  the  materials  at  their  dis- 
posal ?  No  one  could  have  watched 
Sir  William  Harcourt  while  the  dis- 
cussion on  the  dynamiters,  or  on 
Mr.  Sexton's  motion,  was  going 
on  without  realising  the  terrible 
straits  to  which  he,  for  one,  will  be 
reduced.  It  is  quite  obvious  that  the 
Irishmen  will  never  forgive  the  of- 
fences he  committed  in  his  unregene- 
rate  days.  As  Mr.  J.  G.  Fitzgerald 
said  one  evening,  **  The  Irish  people 
would  not  be  persuaded  to  enter  into 
any  sort  of  political  confidence-trick 
with  the  right  hon.  member  for  Derby 
until  he  had  given  evidence  of  his 
h(ma  fides y  To  insist  on  bona  fides  in 
connection  with  a  confidence- trick  is 
Irish  and  good,  but  no  doubt  Sir 
William  Harcourt  understood  what 
his  beloved  colleague  meant.  He  and 
his  fellow  leaders  must  see  that  when- 
ever they  come  to  power  they  will 
have  a  hard  road  to  travel,  and  in- 
flexible taskmasters  over  them.  It 
would  have  been  better  for  them  had 
they  been  left  to  deal  with  Mr.  Parnell 
single-handed.  For  now  they  have  a 
number  of  men  determined  to  revenge 
the  death  of  Mr.  Parnell,  which  is 
ascribed  to  the  misdeeds  of  the  Liberal 
party.  The  symptoms  as  they  appear 
in  the  House  are  very  much  worse 
tlian  they  look  in  the  newspapers. 
There  is  a  suppressed  venom  in  the 
tone  of  the  Parnellites  whenever  they 
refer  to  the  Liberal  leaders,  which  does 
not  come  out  even  when  they  are 
attacking  the  Tories.      The   anti-Par- 


nellites  are  apparently  less  bitter,  but 
whenever  the  Home  Rule  question 
comes  uppermost,  they  will  have  to 
follow  in  the  wake  of  the  other  sec- 
tion. For  on  that  main  point  the 
Irish  people  are  united.  They  are 
not  going  to  have  any  half-and-half 
measure.  There  is  to  be  no  non- 
sense about  it.  The  campaign  for  the 
approaching  election  is  to  be  conducted 
on  the  principle  of  **  The  least  said 
the  soonest  mended."  No  information 
as  to  the  future  Bill  is  to  be  given. 
Unfortunately,  even  this  condition 
does  not  seem  likely  to  be  allowed  to 
pass  unchallenged  by  the  intractable 
followers  of  the  late  Mr.  Parnell. 
On  the  third  night  of  the  Session, 
Mr.  John  Redmond,  their  leader,  made 
an  ominous  remark,  which  appeared 
to  me  to  send  a  cold  shiver  along  the 
front  Opposition  bench.  "  When  the 
proper  time  came,"  he  said,  "as  it 
probably  soon  would,  he  and  the  other 
Irish  members  would  no  doubt  feel 
called  upon  to  express  their  opinions 
as  to  the  necessity  of  the  Liberal  party 
dealing  more  in  detail  with  their  pro- 
posals on  the  Home  Rule  question." 
But  that  is  the  very  thing  which 
(Jannot  be  done  without  the  greatest 
danger  and  risk.  Mr.  Morley  had 
just  made  a  triumphant  hit  by  point- 
ing to  the  fact  that  Rossendale  had 
not  asked  for  details.  That  was  quite 
good  enough  for  rhetorical  purposes 
as  against  the  Tories,  but  the  argu- 
ment drops  to  pieces  if  Mr.  Gladstone's 
Irish  allies  refuse  to  accept  it.  Mr. 
J.  Redmond,  who  is  an  able  man, 
means  to  adopt  that  course.  He  insists 
on  knowing  what  Mr.  Gladstone  means 
to  offer  Ireland.  Twice  already  this 
Session  he  has  thundered  loudly  at  the 
closed  door.  He  will  not  be  put  off. 
Thus  Mr.  Parnell's  *'  soul,"  like  John 
Brown's,  is  still  "  marching  on." 

So,  for  one  reason  and  another,  and 
in  spite  of  the  narrow  escape  from 
defeat  which,  owing  to  a  bit  of  sharp 
practice,  the  Government  had  on  the 
Address,  the  Session  did  not  open  in  a 
very  brilliant  or  encouraging  manner 
for  the  Gladstonians.     No  doubt  the 


400 


The  Stranger  in  the  House, 


temporary  absence  of  their  leader  made 
a  good  deal  of  difference  to  them,  but 
still  there  was  something  in  the  air 
which  even  his  return  could  scarcely 
remove.  Speaking  of  the  air,  let  the 
Stranger  remark  bluntly  that  in  the 
House  of  Commons  this  Session  it 
smells.  What  it  smells  of,  I  am  not 
prepared  to  say,  but  since  all  the 
elaborate  machinery  was  set  in  action 
for  pumping  in  air  from  outside,  and 
forcing  it  through  layers  of  cotton 
wool  and  screens  of  canvas,  and  over 
ice,  and  up  and  down  tubes,  a  flavour 
has  been  imparted  to  the  House  of 
Commons*  atmosphere  which  by  no 
means  resembles  that  of  the  mountain 
tops.  It  is  very  doubtful  whether 
these  elaborate  devices  for  filling  the 
human  lungs  are  calculated  to  answer 
the  desired  purpose.  The  simplest 
means  of  ventilation  are,  after  all,  the 
best.  Theatres  are  never  properly  ven- 
tilated, but  people  do  not  sit  in  theatres 
eight  or  nine  hours  at  a  stretch.  It 
is  the  length  of  time  the  House  is 
used  which  makes  it  so  difficult  to 
keep  up  either  a  requisite  supply  of 
fresh  air  or  a  uniform  temperature. 
But  the  difficulty  has  not  been  solved 
by  the  fans,  tubes,  screens,  filters,  and 
wool.  If  I  am  not  greatly  mistaken,  all 
that  paraphernalia  will  have  to  be 
swept  outside  into  the  Thames  long 
before   the   present    Session    is   over. 


For  already  that  deadly  languor  which 
steals  over  mind  and  body  after  a  few 
hours  spent  in  the  House  has  shown 
itself  in  the  faces  and  bearing  of 
honourable  Members.  The  friendly  at- 
tendant in  my  gallery  is  generally  half 
asleep  before  the  dinner-hour.  He 
too  suspects  the  artificial  air- shop 
downstairs.  I  have  noticed  that  the 
clerks  at  the  table  cannot  always 
resist  the  somnolent  influences  around 
them,  apart  altogether  from  the  speak- 
ing. The  scientific  people  will  have 
to  get  back  to  first  principles  sooner 
or  later.  As  for  the  draughts  and 
cold  currents  which  tear  up  and  down 
all  the  passages  and  corridors  and 
through  the  lobbies,  I  can  confidently 
say  that  they  are  far  worse  than  usual 
this  year.  The  very  first  week  of  the 
Session,  one  of  the  Ministers  was  put 
hors  de  conibat  by  a  severe  cbill,  and  a 
much  respected  Member  received  his 
death-blow.  Several  Members  who  had 
come  back  in  a  weak  state  had  to  beat  a 
retreat.  These  may  not  seem  very  im- 
portant circumstances,  but  if  a  certain 
proportion  of  an  army,  none  too  large 
for  its  purpose  even  at  its  full  strength, 
is  always  dropping  out  invalided,  what 
are  the  unfortunate  leaders  to  do  ? 
From  that  point  of  view,  the  atmo- 
sphere of  the  House  of  Commons 
might  at  any  moment  become  a  matter 
of  national  importance. 


MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 


APRIL,    1892. 


DON    ORSINO.i 


BY     F.     MARION     CRAWFORD. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Orsino's  twenty-first  birthday  fell 
in  the  latter  part  of  January,  when 
the  Roman  season  was  at  its  height ; 
but  as  the  young  man's  majority  did 
not  bring  him  any  of  those  sudden 
changes  in  position  which  make  epochs 
in  the  lives  of  fatherless  sons,  the 
event  was  considered  as  a  family 
matter  and  no  great  social  celebration 
of  it  was  contemplated.  It  chanced, 
too,  that  the  day  of  the  week  was  the 
one  appropriated  by  the  Montevarchi 
for  their  weekly  dance,  with  which 
it  would  have  been  a  mistake  to  inter- 
fere. The  old  Prince  Saracinesca, 
however,  insisted  that  a  score  of  old 
friends  should  be  asked  to  dinner,  to 
drink  the  health  of  his  eldest  grandson, 
and  this  was  accordingly  done. 

Orsino  always  looked  back  to  that 
banquet  as  one  of  the  dullest  at  which 
he  ever  assisted.  The  friends  were 
literally  old,  and  their  conversation 
was  not  brilliant.  Each  one  on 
arriving  addressed  to  him  a  few 
congratulatory  and  moral  sentiments, 
clothed  in  rounded  periods  and  twang- 
ing of  Cicero  in  his  most  sermonising 
mood.  Each  drank  his  especial  health 
at  the  end  of  the  dinner  in  a  tea- 
spoonful  of  old  vin  acmto,  and  each 
made  a  stiff  compliment  to  Corona  on 
her  youthful  appearance.  The  men 
were  almost  all  grandees  of  Spain  of 


the  first  class  and  wore  their  ribbons 
by  common  consent,  which  lent  the 
assembly  an  imposing  appearance ;  but 
several  of  them  were  of  a  somnolent 
disposition  and  nodded  after  dinner, 
which  did  not  contribute  to  prolong 
the  effect  produced.  Orsino  thought 
their  stories  and  anecdotes  very  long- 
winded  and  pointless,  and  even  the  old 
prince  himself  seemed  oppressed  by 
the  solemnity  of  the  affair,  and  rarely 
laughed.  Corona,  with  serene  good 
humour  did  her  best  to  make  con- 
versation, and  a  shade  of  animation 
occasionally  appeared  at  her  end  of  the 
table  ;  but  Sant'  Ilario  was  bored  to 
the  verge  of  extinction  and  talked  of 
nothing  but  archseology  and  the  trial 
of  the  Cenci,  wondering  inwardly  why 
he  chose  such  exceedingly  dry  subjects. 
As  for  Orsino,  the  two  old  princesses 
between  whom  he  was  placed  paid 
very  little  attention  to  him,  and  talked 
across  him  about  the  merits  of  their 
respective  confessors  and  .  directors. 
He  frivolously  asked  them  whether 
they  ever  went  to  the  theatre,  to  which 
they  replied  very  coldly  that  they 
went  to  their  boxes  when  the  piece 
was  not  on  the  Index  and  when  there 
was  no  ballet.  Orsino  understood  why 
he  never  saw  them  at  the  opera,  and 
relapsed  into  silence.  The  butler,  a 
son  of  the  legendary  Pasquale  of 
earlier  days,  did  his  best  to  cheer  the 
youngest  of  his  masters  with  a  great 


No.  390. — VOL.  Lxv. 


^  Copyright  1891,  by  Macmillan  and  Co. 


T>  D 


402 


Dmi  Orsino. 


variety  of  wines ;  but  Orsino  would 
not  be  comforted  either  by  very  dry 
champagne  or  very  mellow  claret. 
But  he  vowed  a  bitter  revenge  and 
swore  to  dance  till  three  in  the  morn- 
ing at  the  Montevarchis  and  finish 
the  night  with  a  rousing  baccarat  at 
the  club,  which  projects  he  began  to 
put  into  execution  as  soon  as  was 
practicable. 

In  due  time  the  guests  departed, 
solemnly  renewing  their  expressions  of 
good  wishes,  and  the  Saracinesca 
household  was  left  to  itself.  The  old 
prince  stood  before  the  fire  in  the  state 
drawing-room,  rubbing  his  hands  and 
shaking  his  head.  Giovanni  and 
Corona  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
fireplace,  looking  at  each  other  •  and 
somewhat  inclined  to  laugh.  Orsino 
was  intently  studying  a  piece  of 
historical  tapestry,  which  had  never 
interested  him  before. 

The  silence  lasted  some  time.  Then 
old  Saracinesca  raised  his  head  and 
gave  vent  to  his  feelings,  with  all  his 
old  energy. 

"  What  a  museum  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
**  I  would  not  have  believed  that  I 
should  live  to  dine  in  my  own  house 
with  a  party  of  stranded  figure-heads 
set  up  in  rows  around  my  table  !  The 
paint  is  all  worn  off,  and  the  brains 
are  all  worn  out,  and  there  is  nothing 
left  but  a  cracked  old  block  of  wood 
with  a  ribbon  around  its  neck.  You 
will  be  just  like  them,  Giovanni,  in  a 
few  years,  for  you  will  be  just  like  me 
— we  all  turn  into  the  same  shape  at 
seventy,  and  if  we  live  a  dozen  years 
longer  it  is  because  Providence  designs 
to  make  us  an  awful  example  to  the 
young.'* 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  call  yourself  a 
figure-head,"  said  Giovanni. 

"  They  are  calling  me  by  worse 
names  at  this  very  minute  as  they 
drive  home.  '  That  old  Methuselah 
of  a  Saracinesca,  how  has  he  the  face 
to  go  on  living  1 '  That  is  the  way 
they  talk.  *  People  ought  to  die 
decently  when  other  people  have  had 
enough  of  them,  instead  of  sitting  up 
at  the  table  like  death's-heads  to  grin 


at  their  grandchildren  and  great-grand- 
children ! '  They  talk  like  that, 
Giovanni.  I  have  known  some  of 
those  old  monuments  for  sixty  years 
and  more,  since  they  were  babies 
and  I  was  of  Orsino' s  age.  Do  you 
suppose  I  do  not  know  how  they  talk  ? 
You  always  take  me  for  a  good 
confiding  old  fellow,  Giovanni.  But 
then,  you  never  understood  human 
nature.  '* 

Giovanni  laughed  and  Corona  smiled. 
Orsino  turned  round  to  enjoy  the  rare 
delight  of  seeing  the  old  gentleman 
rouse  himself  in  a  fit  of  temper. 

"  If  you  were  ever  confiding  it  was 
because  you  were  too  good,"  said 
Giovanni  affectionately. 

"  Yes — good  and  confiding — that  is 
it !  You  always  did  agree  with  me  as 
to  my  own  faults.  Is  it  not  true, 
Corona?  Can  you  not  take  my  part 
against  that  graceless  husband  of 
yours  ?  He  is  always  abusing  me — as 
though  I  were  his  property,  or  his 
guest.  Orsino,  my  boy,  go  away — we 
are  all  quarrelling  here  like  a  pack  of 
wolves,  and  you  ought  to  respect  your 
elders.  Here  is  your  father  calling  me 
by  bad  names " 

"I  said  you  were  too  good,'' 
observed  Giovanni. 

"  Yes — good  and  confiding  !  If  you 
can  find  anything  worse  to  say,  say  it, 
— and  may  you  live  to  hear  that  good- 
for-nothing  Orsino  call  you  good  and 
confiding  when  you  are  eighty-two 
years  old.  And  Corona  is  laughing 
at  me.  It  is  insufferable.  You  used 
to  be  a  good  girl.  Corona — but  you 
are  so  proud  of  having  four  sons  that 
there  is  no  possibility  of  talking  to  you 
any  longer.  It  is  a  pity  that  you  have 
not  brought  them  up  better.  Look  at 
Orsino  !     He  is  laughing  too." 

"  Certainly  not  at  you,  grandfather," 
the  young  man  hastened  to  say. 

"Then  you  must  be  laughing  at 
your  father  or  your  mother,  or  both, 
since  there  is  no  one  else  here  to  laugh 
at.  You  are  concocting  sharp  speeches 
for  your  abominable  tongue.  I  know 
it ;  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  That 
is  the  way  you  have  brought  up  your 


Don   Orsino, 


403 


children,  Giovanni.  I  congratulate 
you.  Upon  my  word,  I  congratulate 
you  with  all  my  heart  !  Not  that  I 
ever  expected  anything  better.  You 
addled  your  own  brains  with  curious 
foreign  ideas  on  your  travels — the 
greater  fool  I  for  letting  you  run 
about  the  world  when  you  were  young. 
I  ought  to  have  locked  you  up  in 
♦Saracinesca,  on  bread  and  water,  until 
you  understood  the  world  well  enough 
to  profit  by  it.     I  wish  I  had." 

None  of  the  three  could  help  laugh- 
ing at  this  extraordinary  speech. 
Orsino  recovered  his  gravity  first,  by 
the  help  of  the  historical  tapestry. 
The  old  gentleman  noticed  the  fact. 

*'  Come  here,  Orsino,  my  boy,"  he 
said.      "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Orsino  came  forward.  The  old 
prince  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
looked  up  into  his  face. 

'*  You  are  twenty-one  years  old  bo- 
day,"  he  said,  "  and  we  are  all  quar- 
relling in  honour  of  the  event.  You 
ought  to  be  flattered  that  we  should 
take  so  much  trouble  to  make  the 
evening  pass  pleasantly  for  you,  but 
you  probably  have  not  the  discrimina- 
tion to  see  what  your  amusement 
costs  us." 

His  grey  beard  shook  a  little,  his 
lugged  features  twitched,  and  then  a 
broad,  good-humoured  smile  lit  up  the 
old  face. 

'•  We  are  quarrelsome  people,"  he 
continued  in  his  most  cheerful  and 
hearty  tone.  "  When  Giovanni  and  I 
were  young, — we  were  young  together, 
you  know — we  quarrelled  every  day 
as  regularly  as  we  ate  and  drank.  I 
believe  it  was  very  good  for  us.  We 
generally  made  it  up  before  night — 
for  the  sake  of  beginning  again  with 
a  clear  conscience.  Anything  served 
u^; — the  weather,  the  soup,  the  colour 
of  a  horse." 

•*  You  must  have  led  an  extremely 
lively  life,"  observed  Orsino  consider- 
ably tamused. 

**  It  was  very  well  for  us,  Orsino. 
IJut  it  will  not  do  for  you.  You  are 
not  so  much  like  your  father,  as  he 
was     like    me     at     your   age.        W^e 


fought  with  the  same  weapons,  but 
you  two  would  not,  if  you  fought  at 
all.  We  fenced  for  our  own  amusement, 
and  we  kept  the  buttons  on  the  foils. 
You  have  neither  my  really  angelic 
temper  nor  your  father's  stony  coolness 
— he  is  laughing  again — no  matter,  he 
knows  it  is  true.  You  have  a  diaboli- 
cal tongue.  Do  not  quarrel  with  your 
father  for  amusement,  Orsino.  His 
calmness  will  exasperate  you  as  it  does 
me,  but  you  will  not  laugh  at  the 
right  moment  as  I  have  done  all  my 
life.  You  will  bear  malice,  and  grow 
sullen  and  permanently  disagreeable. 
And  do  not  say  all  the  cutting  things 
you  think  of,  because  with  your  dis- 
position you  will  get  into  serious 
trouble.  If  you  have  really  good 
cause  for  being  angry,  it  is  better  to 
strike  than  to  speak,  and  in  such  eases 
I  strongly  advise  you  to  strike  first. 
Now  go  and  amuse  yom^self,  for  you 
must  have  had  enough  of  our  company. 
I  do  not  think  of  any  other  advice  to 
give  you  on  your  coming  of  age." 

Thereupon  he  laughed  again  and 
pushed  his  grandson  away,  evidently 
delighted  with  the  lecture  he  had  given 
him.  Orsino  was  quick  to  profit  by 
the  permission  and  was  soon  in  the 
Montevarchi  balh-oom,  doing  his  best 
to  forget  the  lugubrious  feast  in  his 
own  honour  at  which  he  had  lately 
assisted. 

He  was  not  altogether  successful, 
however.  He  had  looked  forward  to 
the  day  for  many  months  as  one  of 
rejoicing  as  well  as  of  emancipation, 
and  he  had  been  grievously  dis- 
appointed. There  was  something  of 
ill  augury,  he  thought,  in  the  appalling 
dulness  of  the  guests,  for  they  had 
congratulated  him  upon  his  entry  into 
a  life  exactly  similar  to  their  own. 
Indeed,  the  more  precisely  similar 
it  proved  to  be,  the  more  he  would  be 
respected  when  he  reached  their 
advanced  age.  The  future  unfolded 
to  him  was  not  gay.  He  was  to  live 
forty,  fifty,  or  even  sixty  years  in  the 
same  round  of  traditions  and  hampered 
by  the  same  net  of  prejudices.  He 
might  have  his  romance,  as  his  father 


n  D  2 


404 


Dcni  Orsino, 


had    had  before  him,  but  there   was 
nothing    beyond     that.      His    father 
seemed  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  own 
unruflOled     existence    and     far     from 
desirous  of  any  change.     The  feudalism 
of  it  all  was  still  real  in  fact,  though 
abolished  in  theory ;  and  the  old  prince 
was  as  much  a  great  feudal  lord   as 
ever,    whose    interests    were    almost 
tribal    in    their    narrowness,    almost 
sordid  in  their  detail,  and  altogether 
uninteresting  to  his  presumptive  heir 
in  the  third  generation.     What  was 
the  peasant  of  Aquaviva,  for  instance, 
to  Orsino  1     Yet  Sant'  Ilario  and  old 
Saracinesca  took  a  lively  interest  in 
his  doings  and  in  the  doings  of  four  or 
five  hundred  of  his  kind,  whom  they 
knew  by  name  and  spoke  of  as  belong- 
ings, much  as  they  would  have  spoken 
of    books  in  the  library.     To  collect 
rents  from  peasants  and  to  ascertain 
in  person  whether  their  houses  needed 
repair    was    not    a    career.       Orsino 
thought  enviously  of   San   Giacinto's 
two  sons,  leading  what  seemed  to  him 
a   life    of    comparative    activity   and 
excitement    in    the     Italian     army, 
and    having    the    prospect     of      dis- 
tinction  by  their   own   merits.      He 
thought  of   San  Giacinto  himself,  of 
his  ceaseless  energy  and  of  the  great 
position    he    was   building    up.     San 
Giacinto  was  a  Saracinesca  as  well  as- 
Orsino,  bearing  the   same  name  and 
perhaps  not   less   respected  than  the 
rest  by  the  world  at  large,  though  he 
had   sullied   his   hands   with   finance. 
Even  Del  Fence's  position  would  have 
been  above  criticism,  but  for  certain 
passages  in  his  earlier  life  not  immedi- 
ately   connected    with     his     present 
occupation.     And  as  if  such  instances 
were     not    enough     there    were,    to 
Orsino' s   certain    knowledge,   half     a 
dozen  men  of  his  father's  rank  even 
now  deeply  engaged  in  the  speculations 
of  the  day.     Montevarchi  was  one  of 
them,  and  neither   he  nor  the  others 
made  any  secret  of  their  doings. 

"  Surely,"  thought  Orsino,  "  I  have 
as  good  a  head  as  any  of  them,  except, 
perhaps,  San  Giacinto." 

And  he  grew  more  and  more  dis- 


contented with  his  lot,  and  more  and 
more  angry  at  himself  for  submitting 
to  be  bound  hand  and  foot  and  sacri- 
ficed upon  the  altar  of  feudalism.  Every- 
thing had  disappointed  and  irritated 
him  on  that  day ;  the  weariness  of  the 
dinner,  the  sight  of  his  parents'  placid 
felicity,  the  advice  his  grandfather  had 
given  him — good  of  its  kind,  but 
lamentably  insufiicient,  to  say  the 
least  of  it.  He  was  rapidly  approach- 
ing that  state  of  mind  in  which  young 
men  do  the  most  unexpected  things 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  surprising 
their  relations. 

He  grew  tired  of  the  ball  because 
Madame  d'Aranjuez  was  not  there. 
He  longed  to  dance  with  her  and  he 
wished  that  he  were  at  liberty  to 
frequent  the  houses  to  which  she  was 
asked.  But  as  yet  she  saw  only 
the  Whites  and  had  not  made 
the  acquaintance  of  a  single  Grey 
family,  in  spite  of  his  entreaties.  He 
could  not  tell  whether  she  had  any 
fixed  reason  in  making  her  choice,  or 
whether  as  yet  it  had  been  the  result 
of  chance,  but  he  discovered  that  he 
was  bored  wherever  he  went  because 
she  was  not  present.  At  supper-time 
on  this  particular  evening,  he  entered 
into  a  conspiracy  with  certain  choice 
spirits  to  leave  the  party  and  adjourn 
to  the  club  and  cards. 

The  sight  of  the  tables  revived 
him  and  he  drew  a  long  breath  as  he 
sat  down  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth 
and  a  glass  at  his  elbow.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  day  were  beginning  at 
last. 

Orsino  was  no  more  a  born  gambler 
than  he  was  disposed  to  be  a  hard 
drinker.  He  loved  excitement  in  any 
shape,  and  being  so  constituted  as  to 
bear  it  better  than  most  men,  he  took 
it  greedily  in  whatever  form  it  was 
offered  to  him.  He  neither  played 
nor  drank  every  day,  but  when  he  did 
either  he  was  inclined  to  play  more 
than  other  people  and  to  consume 
more  strong  liquor.  Yet  his  judgment 
was  not  remarkable,  nor  his  head 
much  stronger  than  the  heads  of  his 
companions.         Great     gamblers     do 


Don  Orsino. 


405 


not  drink  and  great  drinkers  are  not 
good  players,  though  they  are  some- 
times amazingly  lucky  when  in  their 
cups. 

It  is  of  no  use  to  deny  the  enor- 
mous influence  of  brandy  and  games  of 
chance  on  the  men  of  the  present  day, 
but  there  is  little  profit  in  describing 
such  scenes  as  take  place  nightly  in 
many  clubs  all  over  Europe.     Some- 
thing might  be  gained,  indeed,  if  we 
could   trace    the   causes   which    have 
made  gambling  especially  the  vice  of 
■our    generation,   for    that    discovery 
might  show  us  some  means  of  influ- 
-encing  the  next.    But  I  do  not  believe 
that  this  is  possible.     The  times  have 
undoubtedly  grown  more  dull  as  civi- 
lisation has   made  them   more  alike, 
but  there  is,  I  think,  no  truth  in  the 
common  statement  that  vice  is  bred 
of  idleness.     The  really  idle  man  is  a 
poor  creature,  incapable  of  strong  sins. 
It  is  far  more  often  the  man  of  supe- 
rior gifts,  with  faculties  overwrought 
and    nerves    strained    above    concert 
pitch   by   excessive   mental   exertion, 
who  turns  to  vicious  excitement  for 
the  sake  of  rest,  as  a  duller  man  falls 
asleep.     Men   whose   lives  are   spent 
amidst  the  vicissitudes,  surprises,  and 
-disappointments  of  the  money-market 
are  assuredly  less  idle  than  country 
gentlemen ;  the  busy  lawyer  has  less 
time  to  spare  than  the  equally  gifted 
fellow  of  a  college ;  the  skilled  me- 
-chanic  works  infinitely  harder,  taking 
the  average  of  the  whole  year,  than 
the  agricultural  labourer ;  the  life  of 
a  sailor  on  an  ordinary  merchant- ship 
is  one  of  rest,  ease,  and  safety  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  collier.     Yet 
■there  can  hardly  be   a   doubt  as  to 
which  individual  in  each  example  is 
the  one  to  seek  relaxation  in  excite- 
ment, innocent  or  the  reverse,  instead 
of  in  sleep.   The  operator  in  the  stock- 
market,  the  barrister,  the  mechanic, 
the   miner,   in   every    case    the   men 
•whose  faculties  are  the  more  severely 
strained,  are  those  who  seek  strong 
•emotions   in  their  daily  leisure,  and 
-who  are  the  more  inclined  to  extend 
ithat  leisure  at  the  expense  of  bodily 


rest.     It  may  be  objected   that   the 
worst   vice   is   found   in  the   highest 
grades   of    society,   that    is    to    say, 
among    men    who    have    no    settled 
occupation.      I   answer  that,   in    the 
first  place,  this  is  not  a  known  fact, 
but  a  matter  of  speculation  ;  and  that 
the  conclusion   is   principally   drawn 
from  the  circumstance  that  the  evil 
deeds   of    such    persons,   when    they 
become    known,    are     very    severely 
criticised   by   those    whose    criticism 
has  the  most  weight,  namely,  by  the 
equals  of  the  sinners  in  question, — as 
well   as  by  writers  of   fiction  whose 
opinions  may  or    may  not  be  worth 
considering.     For  one  Zola,  historian 
of  the  Rougon-Macquart  family,  there 
are  a  hundred  would-be  Zolas,  censors 
of   a   higher   class,  less  unpleasantly 
fond  of  accurate  detail,  perhaps,  but 
as  merciless  in  intention.     But  even 
if  the  case  against  society  be  proved, 
which  is  possible,  I  do  not  think  that 
society  can  truly  be  called  idle  because 
many  of  those  who  compose  it  have 
no  settled  occupation.     The  social  day 
is  a  long  one.     Society  would  not  ac- 
cept the  eight  hours'  system  demanded 
by  the  labour- unions.     Society  not  un- 
commonly works  at  a  high  pressure 
for  twelve,  foiu'teen,  and  even  sixteen 
hours  at  a  stretch.    The  mental  strain, 
though  not  of  the  most  intellectual 
order,   is    incomparably  more    severe 
than  that  required  for  suocess  in  many 
lucrative  professions  or  crafts.     The 
general    absence    of    a    distinct   aim 
sharpens  the  faculties  in  the  keen  pur- 
suit of  details,  and  lends  an  import- 
ance to  trifles  which  overburdens  at 
every  turn  the  responsibility  borne  by 
the    nerves.      Lazy    people    are    not 
favourites  in  drawing-rooms,  and  still 
less  at  the  dinner-table.    Consider  also 
that  the  average  man  of  the  world, 
and   many  women,  daily   sustain  an 
amount  of  bodily  fatigue  equal  per- 
haps to  that  borne  by  many  mechanics 
and  craftsmen  and  much  greater  than 
that   required  in   the   liberal  profes- 
sions, and  that,  too,  under   far   less 
favourable   conditions.      Kecapitulate 
all   these  points.     Add  together   the 


406 


Don  Orsino. 


physical  effort,  the  mental  activity, 
the  nervous  strain.  Take  the  sum 
and  compare  it  with  that  got  by  a 
similar  process  from  other  conditions 
of  existence.  I  think  there  can  be 
little  doubt  of  the  verdict.  The  force 
exerted  is  wasted,  if  you  please,  but  it 
is  enormously  great,  and  more  than 
sufficient  to  prove  that  those  who  daily 
exert  it  are  by  no  means  idle.  Besides, 
none  of  the  inevitable  outward  and  visi- 
ble results  of  idleness  are  apparent  in 
the  ordinary  man  or  woman  of  society. 
On  the  contrary,  most  of  them  exhibit 
the  peculiar  and  unmistakable  signs 
of  physical  exhaustion,  chief  of  which 
is  cerebral  anaemia.  They  are  over- 
trained and  overworked ;  in  the  lan- 
guage of  training  they  are  *' stale." 

Men  like  Orsino  Saracinesca  are  not 
vicious  at  his  age,  though  they  may 
become  so.  Vice  begins  when  the 
excitement  ceases  to  be  a  matter  of 
taste  and  turns  into  a  necessity. 
Orsino  gambled  because  it  amused 
him  when  no  other  amusement  was 
obtainable,  and  he  drank  while  he 
played  because  it  made  the  amuse- 
ment seem  more  amusing.  He  was 
far  too  young  and  healthy  and  strong 
to  feel  an  irresistible  longing  for 
anything  not  natural. 

On  the  present  occasion  he  cared 
very  little,  at  first,  whether  he  won 
or  lost,  and  as  often  happens  to  a  man 
in  that  mood  he  won  a  considerable 
sum  during  the  first  hour.  The  sight 
of  the  notes  before  him  strengthened 
an  idea  which  had  crossed  his  mind 
more  than  once  of  late,  and  the  stimu- 
lants he  drank  suddenly  fixed  it  into 
a  purpose.  It  was  true  that  he  did 
not  command  any  sum  of  money  which 
could  be  dignified  by  the  name  of 
capital,  but  he  generally  had  enough 
in  his  pocket  to  play  with,  and  to- 
night he  had  rather  more  than  usual. 
It  struck  him  that  if  he  could  win  a 
few  thousands  by  a  run  of  luck,  he 
would  have  more  than  enough  to  try 
his  fortune  in  the  building-specula- 
tions of  which  Del  Ferice  had  talked. 
The  scheme  took  shape  and  at  once 
lent  a  passionate  interest  to  his  play. 


Orsino  had  no  system  and  generally 
left  everything  to  chance,  but  he  had 
no  sooner  determined  that  he  must 
win  than  he  improvised  a  method ^ 
and  began  to  play  carefully.  Of 
course  he  lost,  and  as  he  saw  his 
heap  of  notes  diminishing,  he  filled 
his  glass  more  and  more  often.  By 
two  o'clock  he  had  but  five  hundred 
francs  left,  his  face  was  deadly  pale, 
the  lights  dazzled  him,  and  his  hands 
moved  uncertainly.  He  held  the  bank 
and  he  knew  that  if  he  lost  on  the 
card  he  must  borrow  money,  which  he 
did  not  wish  to  do. 

He  dealt  himself  a  five  of  spades, 
and  glanced  at  the  stakes.  They  were 
considerable.  A  last  sensation  of 
caution  prevented  him  from  taking 
another  card.  The  table  turned  up 
a  six  and  he  lost. 

*'Lend  me  some  money,  Filippo,'' 
he  said  to  the  man  nearest  him,  who 
immediatelv  counted  out  a  number  of 
notes. 

Orsino  paid  with  the  money  and  the 
bank  passed.  He  emptied  his  glass 
and  lit  a  cigarette.  At  each  succeed- 
ing deal  he  staked  a  small  sum  and 
lost  it,  till  the  bank  came  to  him 
again.  Once  more  he  held  a  five. 
The  other  men  saw  that  he  was  losing 
and  put  up  all  they  could.  Orsino 
hesitated.  Some  one  observed  justly 
that  he  probably  held  a  five  again. 
The  lights  swam  indistinctly  before 
him  and  he  drew  another  card.  It 
was  a  four.  Orsino  laughed  nervously 
as  he  gathered  the  notes  and  paid 
back  what  he  had  borrowed. 

He  did  not  remember  clearly  what 
happened  afterwards.  The  faces  of 
the  cards  grew  less  distinct  and  the 
lights  more  dazzling.  He  played 
blindly  and  won  almost  without  in- 
terruption until  the  other  men  dropped 
off  one  by  one,  having  lost  as  much 
as  they  cared  to  part  with  at  one 
sitting.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing Orsino  went  home  in  a  cab,  having 
about  fifteen  thousand  francs  in  his 
pockets.  The  men  he  had  played  with 
were  mostly  young  fellows  like  him- 
self,   having   a   limited   allowance   o£ 


Don  Ovsino, 


407 


pocket-money,  and  Orsino's  winnings 
were  very  large  in  the  circumstances. 

The  night  air  cooled  his  head  and 
he  laughed  gaily  to  himself  as  he  drove 
through  the  deserted  streets.  His 
hand  was  steady  enough  now,  and  the 
gas  lamps  did  not  move  disagreeably 
before  his  eyes.  But  he  had  reached 
the  stage  of  excitement  in  which  a 
fixed  idea  takes  hold  of  the  brain,  and 
if  it  had  been  possible  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  gone  as  he  was,  in 
evening  dress  with  his  winnings  in 
his  pocket,  to  rouse  Del  Ferice,  or 
San  Giacinto,  or  any  one  else  who 
could  put  him  in  the  way  of  risking 
his  money  on  a  building-lot.  He  re- 
luctantly resigned  himself  to  the  neces- 
sity of  going  to  bed,  and  slept  as  one 
sleeps  at  twenty-one  until  nearly  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  following  morning. 

While  he  dressed  he  recalled  the 
circumstances  of  the  previous  night 
and  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  idea 
was  as  fixed  as  ever.  He  counted  the 
money.  There  was  five  times  as  much 
as  the  Del  Fence's  carpenter,  tobacco- 
nist, and  mason  had  been  able  to  scrape 
together  among  them.  He  had  there- 
fore, accol'ding  to  his  simple  calcula- 
tion, just  five  times  as  good  a  chance 
of  succeeding  as  they.  And  they  had 
been  successful.  His  plan  fascinated 
him,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the 
constant  interest  and  occupation  with 
a  delight  which  was  creditable  to  his 
character.  He  would  be  busy,  and  the 
magic  word  "  business "  rang  in  his 
ears.  It  was  speculation,  no  doubt, 
but  he  did  not  look  upon  it  as  a  form 
of  gambling;  if  he  had  done  so,  he 
would  not  have  cared  for  it  on  two 
consecutive  days.  It  was  something 
much  better  in  his  eyes.  It  was  to 
do  something,  to  be  some  one,  to 
strike  out  of  the  everlastingly  dull 
road  which  lay  before  him  and  which 
ended  in  the  vanishing  point  of  an 
insignificant  old  age. 

He  had  not  the  very  faintest  con- 
ception of  what  that  business  was 
with  which  he  aspired  to  occupy  him- 
self. He  was  totally  ignorant  of  the 
methods  of  dealing  with  money,  and 


he  no  more  knew  what  a  draft  at 
three  months  meant  than  he  could 
have  explained  the  construction  of 
the  watch  he  carried  in  his  pocket. 
Of  the  first  principles  of  building  he 
knew,  if  possible,  even  less,  and  he 
did  not  know  whether  land  in  the  city 
were  worth  a  franc  or  a  thousand 
francs  by  the  square  foot.  But  he 
said  to  himself  that  those  things  were 
mere  details,  and  that  he  could  learn 
all  he  needed  of  them  in  a  fortnight. 
Courage  and  judgment,  Del  Ferice 
had  said,  were  the  chief  requisites  for 
success.  Courage  he  possessed,  and 
he  believed  himself  cool.  He  would 
avail  himself  of  the  judgment  of  others 
until  he  could  judge  for  himself. 

He  knew  very  well  what  his  father 
would  think  of  the  whole  plan,  but  he 
had  no  intention  of  concealing  his 
project.  Since  yesterday  he  was  of  age 
and  was  therefore  his  own  master  to 
the  extent  of  his  own  small  resources. 
His  father  had  not  the  power  to  keep 
him  from  entering  upon  any  honour- 
able undertaking,  though  he  might 
justly  refuse  to  be  responsible  for  the. 
consequences.  At  the  worst,  thought 
Or  si  no,  those  consequences  might  be 
the  loss  of  the  money  he  had  in  hand. 
Since  he  had  nothing  else  to  risk,  he 
had  nothing  else  to  lose.  That  is  the 
light  in  which  most  inexperienced 
people  regard  speculation.  Orsino 
therefore  went  to  his  father  and  un- 
folded his  scheme,  without  mentioning 
Del  Ferice. 

Sant'  Ilario  listened  rather  im- 
patiently and  laughed  when  Orsino 
had  finished.  He  did  not  mean  to  be 
unkind,  and  if  he  had  dreamed  of  the 
effect  his  manner  would  produce,  he 
would  have  been  more  careful.  But 
he  did  not  understand  his  son,  as  he 
liimself  had  been  understood  by  his 
own  father. 

"  This  is  all  nonsense,  my  boy,"  he 
answered.  "  It  is  a  mere  passing  fancy. 
What  do  you  know  of  business  or 
architecture,  or  of  a  dozen  other  mat- 
ters which  you  ought  to  understand 
thoroughly  before  attempting  any- 
thing like  what  you  propose!" 


403 


Don  Orsino. 


Orsino  was  silent,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  though  he  was  evidently- 
listening. 

**  You  say  you  want  an  occupation. 
This  is  not  one.  Banking  is  an  occu- 
pation, and  architecture  is  a  career, 
but  what  we  call  affairs  in  Kome  are 
neither  one  nor  the  other.  If  you 
want  to  be  a  banker  you  must  go  into 
a  bank  and  do  clerk's  work  for  years. 
If  you  mean  to  follow  architecture  as 
a  profession  you  must  spend  four  or 
five  years  in  study  at  the  very  least." 
**  San  Giscinto  has  not  done  that," 
observed  Orsino  coldly. 

**  San  Giacinto  has  a  very  much 
better  head  on  his  shoulders  than  you, 
or  I,  or  almost  any  other  man  in 
Home.  He  has  known  how  to  make 
use  of  other  men's  talents,  and  he  had 
a  rather  more  practical  education  than 
I  would  have  cared  to  give  you.  If 
he  were  not  one  of  the  most  honest 
men  alive  he  would  certainly  have 
turned  out  one  of  the  greatest 
scoundrels." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  that  has  to  do 
with  it,"  said  Orsino. 

"Not  much,  I  confess.  But  his 
early  life  made  him  understand  men 
as  you  and  I  cannot  understand  them, 
and  need  not,  for  that  matter." 

"Then  you  object  to  my  trying 
this « " 

"  I  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  When 
I  object  to  the  doing  of  anything  I 
prevent  it  by  fair  words  or  by  force. 
I  am  not  inclined  for  a  pitched  battle 
with  you,  Orsino,  and  I  might  not  get 
the  better  of  you  after  all.  I  will  be 
perfectly  neutral.  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  this  business.  If  I  believed 
in  it,  I  would  give  you  all  the  capital 
you  could  need,  but  I  shall  not  diminish 
your  allowance  in  order  to  hinder  you 
from  throwing  it  away.  If  you  want 
more  money  for  your  amusements  or 
luxuries,  say  so.  I  am  not  fond  of 
counting  small  expenses,  and  I  have 
not  brought  yovi  up  to  count  them 
either.  Do  not  gamble  at  cards  any 
more  than  you  can  help,  but  if  you 
lose  and  must  borrow,  borrow  of  me. 
When  I  think  you  are  going  too  far, 


I  will  tell  you  so.  But  do  not  count 
upon  me  for  any  help  in  this  scheme 
of  yours.  You  will  not  get  it.  If 
you  find  yourself  in  a  commercial 
scrape,  find  your  own  way  out  of  it. 
If  you  want  better  advice  than  mine, 
go  to  San  Giacinto.  He  will  give  you 
a  practical  man's  view  of  the  case." 

"  You  are  frank,  at  all  events," 
said  Orsino,  turning  from  the  window 
and  facing  his  father. 

"Most  of  us  are  in  this  house," 
answered  Sant'  Ilario.  "  That  will 
make  it  all  the  harder  for  you  to  deal 
with  the  scoundrels  who  call  them- 
selves men  of  business." 

**I  mean  to  try  this,  father,"  said 
the  young  man.  "  I  will  go  and  see 
San  Giacinto,  as  you  suggest,  and  I 
will  ask  his  opinion.  But  if  he  dis- 
courages me  I  will  try  my  luck  all  the 
same.  I  cannot  lead  this  life  any 
longer.  I  want  an  occupation,  and  I 
will  make  one  for  myself." 

"It  is  not  an  occupation  that  you 
want,  Orsino.  It  is  another  excite- 
ment. That  is  all.  If  you  want  an 
occupation,  study,  learn  something, 
find  out  what  work  means.  Or  go  to 
Saracinesca  and  build  houses  for  the 
peasants ;  you  will  do  no  harm  there, 
at  all  events.  Go  and  drain  that  land 
in  Lombardy ;  I  can  do  nothing  with 
it  and  would  sell  it  if  I  could.  But 
that  is  not  what  you  want.  You  want 
an  excitement  for  the  hours  of  the 
morning.  Very  well  You  will  prob- 
ably find  more  of  it  than  you  like. 
Try  it ;  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Like  many  very  just  men  Giovanni 
could  state  a  case  with  alarming  un- 
fairness when  thoroughly  convinced 
that  he  was  right.  Orsino  stood  still 
for  a  moment  and  then  walked  towards 
the  door  without  another  word.  His 
father  called  him  back. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Orsino  coldly. 

Sant*  Ilario  held  out  his  hand  with 
a  kindly  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  that  I 
am  angry,  my  boy.  There  is  to  be  no 
ill  feeling  between  us  about  this  1 " 

"  None  whatever,"  said  the  young 
man,  though  without  much  alacrity 


Don  Orsino. 


409 


as  he  shook  hands  with  his  father. 
**I  see  you  are  not  angry.  You  do 
not  understand  me,  that  is  all.'' 

He  went  out,  more  disappointed  with 
the  result  of  the  interview  than  he 
had  expected,  though  he  had  not  looked 
forward  to  receiving  any  encourage- 
ment. He  had  known  very  well  what 
his  father's  views  were,  but  he  had  not 
foreseen  that  he  would  be  so  much 
irritated  by  the  expression  of  them. 
His  determination  hardened,  and  .he 
resolved  that  nothing  should  hinder 
him.  But  he  was  both  willing  and 
ready  to  consult  San  Giacinto,  and 
went  to  the  latter' s  house  immediately 
on  leaving  Sant'  Ilario's  study. 

As  for  Giovanni,  he  was  dimly  con- 
scious that  he  had  made  a  mistake, 
though  he  did  not  care  to  acknowledge 
it.  He  was  a  good  horseman,  and  he 
was  aware  that  be  would  have  used  a 
very  different  method  with  a  restive 
colt.  But  few  men  are  wise  enough  to 
see  that  there  is  only  one  universal 
principle  to  follow  in  the  exertion  of 
strength,  moral  or  physical ;  and  in- 
stead of  seeking  analogies  out  of 
actions  familiar  to  them  as  a  means 
of  accomplishing  the  unfamiliar,  they 
try  to  discover  new  theories  of  motion 
at  every  turn,  and  are  led  farther  and 
farther  from  the  right  line  by  their 
own  desire  to  reach  the  end  quickly. 

"At  all  events,'*  thought  Sant' 
Ilario,  "  the  boy's  new  hobby  will 
take  him  to  places  where  he  is  nob 
likely  to  meet  that  woman." 

And  with  this  discourteous  reflection 
upon  Madame  d'Aranjuez  he  consoled 
himself.  He  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  tell  Corona  of  Orsino's  intentions, 
simply  because  he  did  not  believe  that 
they  would  lead  to  anything  serious, 
and  there  was  no  use  in  disturbing  her 
unnecessarily  with  visions  of  future' 
annoyance.  If  Orsino  chose  to  speak 
of  it  to  her,  he  was  at  liberty  to  do 
so. 

CHAPTER  X. 

Orsino  went  directly  to  San  Gia- 
cinto's  house,  and  found  him  in  the 
room  which  he  used  for  working,  and 


in  which  he  received  the  many  persons 
whom  he  was  often  obliged  to  see  on 
business.     The   giant  was   alone   and 
was    seated  behind  a   broad  polished 
table,  occupied  in  writing.     Orsino  was 
struck   by  the  extremely  orderly  ar- 
rangement    of     everything    he    saw. 
Papers  were  tied  together  in  bundles 
of  exactly   like   shape,  which   lay   in 
two  lines    of  mathematical  precision. 
The    big   inkstand  was    just    in   the 
middle   of    the    rows,   and   a   paper- 
cutter,    a   pen- rack,  and   an    erasing- 
knife  lay  side  by  side  in  front  of  it. 
The  walls  were  lined  with  low  book- 
cases of  a  heavy  and  severe  type,  filled 
principally  with  documents  neatly  filed 
in  volumes  and  marked  on  the  back  in 
San  Giacinto's  clear  handwriting.    The 
only   object    of  beauty   in  the   room 
was  a  full-length  portrait  of  Flavia  by 
a  great  artist,  which  hung  above  the 
fireplace.   The  rigid  symmetry  of  every- 
thing was  made  imposing  by  the  size 
of  the  objects — the  table  was  larger 
than  ordinary  tables,  the  easy-chairs 
were  deeper,  broader,  and  lower  than 
common,    the    inkstand    was    bigger, 
even  the  penholder  in  San  Giacinto's 
fingers  was  longer  and  thicker  than 
any  Orsino  had  ever  seen.     And  yet 
the  latter  felt  that  there  was  no  affec- 
tation about   all   this.     The   man   to 
whom  these  things  belonged,  and  who 
used  them  daily,  was  himself  created 
on  a  scale  larger  than  other  men. 

Though  he  was  older  than  Sant' 
Ilario,  and  was,  in  fact,  not  far  from 
sixty  years  of  age,  San  Giacinto  might 
easily  have  passed  for  less  than  fifty. 
There  was  hardly  a  grey  thread  in  his 
short,  thick,  black  hair,  and  he  was 
still  as  lean  and  sbrong,  and  almost  as 
active,  as  he  had  been  thirty  years 
earlier.  The  large  features  were  per- 
haps a  little  more  bony,  and  the  eyes 
somewhat  deeper  than  they  had  been, 
but  these  changes  lent  an  air  of 
dignity  rather  than  of  age  to  the  face. 
He  rose  to  meet  Orsino,  and  then 
made  him  sit  down  beside  the  table. 
The  young  man  suddenly  felt  an  un- 
accountable sense  of  inferiority,  and 
hesitated  as  to  how  he  should  begin. 


410 


Don  Ch'sino. 


"  I  suppose  you  want  to  consult  me 
about  something,"  said  San  Giacinto 
quietly. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  ask  your  advice, 
if  you  will  give  it  to  me,  about  a 
matter  of  business." 

"Willingly.     What  is  it?" 

Orsino  was  silent  for  a  moment  and 
stared  at  the  wall.  He  was  conscious 
that  the  very  small  sum  of  which  he 
could  dispose  must  seem  even  smaller 
in  the  eyes  of  such  a  man,  but  this  did 
not  disturb  him.  He  was  oppressed 
by  San  Giacinto*s  personality,  and  pre- 
pared himself  to  speak  as  though  he 
had  been  a  student  undergoing  oral 
examination.  He  stated  his  case 
plainly,  when  he  at  last  spoke.  He 
was  of  age,  and  he  looked  forward 
with  dread  to  an  idle  life.  All  careers 
were  closed  to  him.  He  had  fifteen 
thousand  francs  in  his  pocket.  Could 
San  Giacinto  help  him  to  occupy  him- 
self by  investing  the  sum  in  a  building 
speculation  1  Was  the  sum  sufficient 
as  a  beginning?  Those  were  the 
questions. 

San  Giacinto  did  not  laugh  as  Sant' 
Ilario  had  done.  He  listened  very 
attentively  to  the  end,  and  then 
deliberately  offered  Orsino  a  cigar  and 
lit  one  himself  before  he  delivered  his 
answer. 

**  You  are  asking  the  same  question 
that  is  put  to  me  very  often,"  he 
said  at  last.  "I  wish  I  could  give 
you  any  encouragement.     I  cannot." 

Orsino' s  face  fell,  for  the  reply  was 
categorical.  He  drew  back  a  little  in 
his  chair,  but  said  nothing. 

"  That  is  my  answer,"  continued 
San  Giacinto  thoughtfully,  *'  but  when 
one  says  *  no  '  to  another,  the  subject 
is  not  necessarily  exhausted.  On  the 
contrary,  in  such  a  case  as  this  I 
cannot  let  you  go  without  giving  you 
my  reasons.  I  do  not  care  to  give  my 
views  to  the  public,  but  such  as  they 
are,  you  are  welcome  to  them.  The 
time  is  past.  That  is  why  I  advise 
you  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  any 
speculation  of  this  kind.  That  is  the 
best  of  all  reasons." 

**  But   you   yourself    are    still    en- 


gaged in  this  business,"  objected 
Orsino. 

**  Not  so  deeply  as  you  fancy.  I 
have  sold  almost  everything  which  I 
do  not  consider  a  certainty,  and  am 
selling  what  little  I  still  have  as  fast 
as  I  can.  In  speculation  there  are 
only  two  important  moments, — the 
moment  to  buy  and  the  moment  to 
sell.  In  my  opinion  this  is  the  time 
to  sell,  and  I  do  not  think  that  the 
ti9ie  for  buying  will  come  again 
without  a  crisis." 

"But  everything  is  in  such  a 
flourishing  state " 

"No  doubt  it  is, — to-day.  But  no 
one  can  tell  what  state  business  will 
be  in  next  week,  nor  even  to- 
morrow." 

"  There  is  Del  Ferice " 

**No  doubt,  and  a  score  like  him," 
answered  San  Giacinto,  looking  quietly 
at  Orsino.  "  Del  Ferice  is  a  banker, 
and  I  am  a  speculator,  as  you  wish  to 
be.  His  position  is  different  from 
ours.  It  is  better  to  leave  him  out  of 
the  question.  Let  us  look  at  the 
matter  logically.  You  wish  to 
speculate " 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Orsino,  interrupt- 
ing him.  "  I  want  to  try  what  I  can 
do  in  business." 

"  You  wish  to  risk  money,  in  one 
way  or  another.  You  therefore  wish 
one  or  more  of  three  things, — money 
for  its  own  sake,  excitement,  or  occu- 
pation. I  can  hardly  suppose  that 
you  want  money.  Eliminate  that. 
Excitement  is  not  a  legitimate  aim^ 
and  you  can  get  it  more  safely  in 
other  ways.  Therefore  you  want 
occupation." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  said  at 
the  beginning,"  obser^-ed  Orsino  with 
a  shade  of  irritation. 

"  Yes.  But  I  like  to  reach  my 
conclusions  in  my  own  way.  You  are,, 
then,  a  young  man  in  search  of  an 
occupation.  Speculation,  and  what  you 
propose  is  nothing  else,  is  no  more 
an  occupation  than  playing  at  the 
public  lottery,  and  much  less  one  than 
playing  at  baccarat.  There  at  least 
you    are    responsible    for    your    own 


Don  Orsino. 


411 


mistakes,  and  in  decent  society  you  are 
safe  from  the  machinations  of  dishonest 
people.  That  would  matter  less  if  the 
chances  were  in  your  favour,  as  they 
might  have  been  a  year  ago  and  as 
they  were  in  mine  from  the  beginning. 
They  are  against  you  now,  because  it 
is  too  late,  and  they  are  against  me.  I 
would  as  soon  buy.  a  piece  of  land  on 
credit  at  the  present  moment,  as  give 
the  whole  sum  in  cash  to  the  first  man 
I  met  in  the  street.  *' 

"  Yet  there  is  Monte varchi  who 
still  buys " 

"Monte varchi  is  not  worth  the 
paper  on  which  he  signs  his  name," 
said  San  Giacinto  calmly. 

Orsino  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  incredulity.  "  You  may 
tell  him  so,  if  you  please,"  answered 
the  giant  with  perfect  indifference. 
*'  If  you  tell  any  one  what  I  have  said, 
please  to  tell  him  first,  that  is  all.  He 
will  not  believe  you.  But  in  six 
months  he  will  know  it,  I  fancy,  as 
well  as  I  know  it  now.  He  might 
have  doubled  his  fortune,  but  he  was 
and  is  totally  ignorant  of  business. 
He  thought  it  enough  to  invest  all  he 
could  lay  hands  on  and  that  the 
returns  would  be  sure.  He  has 
invested  forty  millions,  and  owns 
property  which  he  believes  to  be 
worth  sixty,  but  wTiich  will  not  bring 
ten  in  six  months,  and  those  remaining 
ten  millions  he  owes  on  all  manner  of 
paper,  on  mortgages  on  his  original 
property,  in  a  dozen  ways  which  he 
has  forgotten  himself." 

*'  I  do  not  see  how  that  is  possible  !  " 
exclaimed  Orsino. 

*'  I  am  a  plain  man,  Orsino,  and  I 
um  your  cousin.  You  may  take  it  for 
granted  that  1  am  right.  Do  not 
forget  that  I  was  brought  up  in  a 
hand-to-hand  struggle  for  fortune 
such  as  you  cannot  dream  of. 
"When  I  was  your  age  I  was  a  practical 
man  of  business,  and  I  had  taught 
myself,  and  it  was  all  on  such  a  small 
scale  that  a  mistake  of  a  hundred 
francs  made  the  difference  between 
profit  and  loss.  I  dislike  details,  but 
I  have  been  a  man  of  detail  all  my 


life  by  force  of  circumstances.  Suc- 
cessful business  implies  the  compre- 
hension of  details.  It  is  tedious  work, 
and  if  you  mean  to  try  it  you  must 
begin  at  the  beginning.  You  ought 
to  do  so.  There  is  an  enormous 
business  before  you  with  considerable 
capabilities  in  it.  If  I  were  in  your 
place,  I  would  take  what  fell  naturally 
to  my  lot." 

*' What  is  that?" 

"  Farming.  They  call  it  agriculture 
in  Parliament,  because  they  do  not 
know  what  farming  means.  The  men 
who  think  that  Italy  can  live  without 
farmers  are  fools.  We  are  not  a  manu- 
facturing people  any  more  than  we  are 
a  business  people.  The  best  dictator 
for  us  would  be  a  practical  farmer,  a 
ploughman  like  Cincinnatus.  Nobody 
who  has  not  tried  to  raise  wheat  on  an 
Italian  mountain-side  knows  the  great 
difficulties  or  the  great  possibilities  of 
our  country.  Do  you  know  that  bad 
as  our  farming  is,  and  absurd  as  is 
our  system  of  land-taxation,  we  are 
food-exporters  to  a  small  extent  ?  The 
beginning  is  there.  Take  my  advice ; 
be  a  farmer.  Manage  one  of  the  big 
estates  you  have  among  you  for  five 
or  six  years.  You  will  not  do  much 
good  to  the  land  in  that  time,  but  you 
will  learn  what  land  really  means. 
Then  go  into  Parliament  and  tell 
people  facts.  That  is  an  occupation 
and  a  career  as  well,  which  cannot  be 
said  of  speculation  in  building-lots, 
large  or  small.  If  you  have  any 
ready  money  keep  it  in  government 
bonds  until  you  have  a  chance  of  buy- 
ing something  worth  keeping." 

Orsino  went  away  disappointed  and 
annoyed.  San  Giacinto' s  talk  about 
farming  seemed  very  dull  to  him. 
To  bury  himself  for  half-a-dozen  years 
in  the  country  in  order  to  learn  the 
rotation  of  crops  and  the  principles  of 
land-draining  did  not  present  itself  as 
an  attractive  career.  If  San  Giacinto 
thought  farming  the  great  profession 
of  the  future,  why  did  he  not  try  it 
himself?  Orsino  dismissed  the  idea 
rather  indignantly,  and  his  determina- 
tion to  try  his  luck  became  stronger 


412 


Don  Orsino, 


by  the  opposition  it  met.  Moreover, 
he  had  expected  very  different  lan- 
guage from  San  Giacinto,  whose  sober 
view  jarred  on  Orsino's  enthusiastic 
impulse. 

But  he  now  found  himself  in  con- 
siderable difficulty.  He  was  ignorant 
even  of  the  first  steps  to  be  taken, 
and  knew  no  one  to  whom  he  could 
apply  for  information.  There  was 
Prince  Monte varchi,  indeed,  who, 
though  he  was  San  Giacinto's  brother- 
in-law,  seemed  by  the  latter' s  account 
to  have  got  into  trouble.  He  did  not 
understand  how  San  Giacinto  could 
allow  his  wife's  brother  to  ruin  him- 
self without  lending  him  a  helping 
hand,  but  San  Giacinto  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  of  whom  people  ask 
indiscreet  questions,  and  Orsino  had 
heard  that  the  two  men  were  not  on 
the  best  of  terms.  Possibly  good 
advice  had  been  offered  and  refused. 
Such  affairs  generally  end  in  a  breach 
of  friendship.  However  that  might 
be,  Orsino  would  not  go  to  Monte- 
varchi. 

He  wandered  aimlessly  about  the 
streets,  and  the  money  seemed  to 
burn  in  his  pocket,  though  he  had 
carefully  deposited  it  in  a  place  of 
safety  at  home.  Again  and  again 
Del  Fence's  story  of  the  carpenter 
and  his  two  companions  recurred  to 
his  mind.  He  wondered  how  they 
had  set  about  beginning,  and  he 
wished  he  could  ask  Del  Ferice 
himself.  He  could  not  go  to  the  man's 
house,  but  he  might  possibly  meet 
him  at  Maria  Consuelo's.  He  was 
surprised  to  find  that  he  had  almost 
forgotten  her  in  his  anxiety  to  become 
a  man  of  business.  It  was  too  early 
to  call  yet,  and  in  order  to  kill  the 
time  he  went  home,  got  a  horse  from 
the  stables,  and  rode  out  into  the 
country  for  a  couple  .of  hours. 

At  half -past  five  o'clock  he  entered 
the  familiar  little  sitting-room  in  the 
hotel.  Madame  d'Aranjuez  was  alone, 
cutting  a  new  book  with  the  jewelled 
knife  which  continued  to  be  the  only 
object  of  the  kind  visible  in  the  room. 
She  smiled  as  Orsino  entered,  and  she 


laid  aside  the  volume  as  he  sat  down 
in  his  accustomed  place. 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  coming," 
she  said. 

"Why]" 

"  You  always  come  at  five.  It  is 
half -past  to-day." 

Orsino  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Do  you  notice  whether  I  come  or 
not  1 "  he  asked. 

Maria  Consuelo  glanced  at  his  face, 
and  laughed.  **  What  have  you  been 
doing  to-day]"  she  asked.  "That  is 
much  more  interesting." 

**  Is  it  ?  I  am  afraid  not.  I  have 
been  listening  to  those  disagreeal)le 
things  which  are  called  truths  by  the 
people  who  say  them.  I  have  listened 
to  two  lectures  delivered  by  two  very 
intelligent  men  for  my  especial  benefit. 
It  seems  to  me  that  as  soon  as  I  make 
a  good  resolution  it  becomes  the  duty 
of  sensible  people  to  demonstrate  that 
I  am  a  fool." 

"You  are  not  in  a  good  humour. 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  And  weary  you  with  my  grievances  1 
No.  Is  Del  Ferice  coming  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  He  does  not 
come  often." 

"  I  thought  he  came  almost  every 
day,"  said  Orsino  gloomily. 

He  was  disappointed,  but  Maria 
Consuelo  did  not  understand  what 
was  the  matter.  She  leaned  forward 
in  her  low  seat,  her  chin  resting  upon 
one  hand,  and  her  tawny  eyes  fixed  on 
Orsino' s. 

**  Tell  me,  my  friend — are  you 
unhappy  ?  Can  I  do  anything  1  Will 
you  tell  me  1 " 

It  was  not  easy  to  resist  the  appeal. 
Though  the  two  had  grown  intimate 
of  late,  there  had  hitherto  always  been 
something  cold  and  reserved  behind 
her  outwardly  friendly  manner.  To- 
day she  seemed  suddenly  willing  to  be 
different.  Her  easy,  graceful  attitude, 
her  soft  voice  full  of  promised 
sympathy,  above  all  the  look  in  her 
strange  eyes  revealed  a  side  of  her 
character  which  Orsino  had  not 
suspected,    and    which    affected    him 


Don  Orsino. 


418 


in    a    way    he    could    not    have    de- 
scribed. 

Without  hesitation  he  told  her  his 
story  from  beginning  to  end,  simply, 
without  comment,  and  without  any  of 
the  cutting  phrases  which  came  so 
readily  to  his  tongue  on  most  occasions. 
She  listened  very  thoughtfully  to  the 
end. 

"  Those  things  are  not  misfortunes," 
she  said.  "But  they  may  be  the 
beginnings  of  unhappiness.  To  be 
unhappy  is  worse  than  any  misfortune. 
What  right  has  your  father  to  laugh 
at  you  1  Because  he  never  needed  to 
do  anything  for  himself,  he  thinks  it 
absurd  that  his  son  should  dislike  the 
lazy  life  that  is  prepared  for  him.  It 
is  not  reasonable, — it  is  not  kind  ! " 

"Yet  he  means  to  be  both,  I 
suppose,"  said  Orsino  bitterly. 

"Oh,  of  course !  People  always 
mean  to  be  the  soul  of  logic  and  the 
paragon  of  charity  !  Especially  where 
their  own  children  are  concerned." 

Maria  Consuelo  added  the  last  words 
with  more  feeling  than  seemed  justified 
by  her  sympathy  for  Orsino' s  woes. 
The  moment  was  perhaps  favourable 
for  asking  a  leading  question  about 
herself,  and  her  answer  might  have 
thrown  light  on  her  problematic  past. 
But  Orsino  was  too  busy  with  his  own 
troubles  to  think  of  that,  and  the 
opportunity  slipped  by  and  was  lost. 

"  You  know  now  why  I  want  to  see 
Del  Ferice,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  go 
to  his  house.  My  only  chance  of 
talking  to  him  lies  here." 

"  And  that  is  what  brings  you  1 
You  are  very  flattering  ! " 

"  Do  not  be  unjust  I  We  all  look 
forward  to  meeting  our  friends  in 
heaven." 

"  Very  pretty  !  I  forgive  you.  But 
I  am  afraid  that  you  will  not  meet 
Del  Ferice.  1  do  not  think  he  has 
left  the  Chambers  yet.  There  was  to 
be  a  debate  this  afternoon  in  which  he 
had  to  speak." 

"  Does  he  make  speeches  1 " 

"  Very  good  ones ;  I  have  heard  him." 

"  I  have  never  been  inside  the 
Chambers,"  observed  Orsino. 


"  You  are  not  very  patriotic.  You 
might  go  there  and  ask  for  Del  Ferice. 
You  could  see  him  without  going  to 
his  house,  without  compromising  your 
dignity." 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"Because  it  all  seems  to  me  so 
absurd.  You  know  that  you  are 
perfectly  free  to  go  and  see  him  when 
and  where  you  will.  There  is 'nothing 
to  prevent  you.  He  is  the  one  man  of 
all  others  whose  advice  you  need.  He 
has  an  unexceptionable  position  in  the 
world, — no  doubt  he  has  done  strange 
things,  but  so  have  dozens  of  people 
whom  you  know — his  present  reputa- 
tion is  excellent,  I  say.  And  yet, 
because  some  twenty  years  ago,  when 
you  were  a  child,  he  held  one  opinion 
and  your  father  held  anothei*,  you  are 
interdicted  from  crossing  his  threshold ! 
If  you  can  shake  hands  with  him  here, 
you  can  take  his  hand  in  his  own 
house.     Is  not  that  true  1 " 

"  Theoretically,  I  dare  say,  but  not 
in  practice.  You  see  it  yourself.  You 
have  chosen  one  side  from  the  first, 
and  all  the  people  on  the  other  side 
know  it.  As  a  foreigner  you  are  not 
bound  to  either,  and  you  can  know 
everybody  in  time,  if  you  please. 
Society  is  not  so  prejudiced  as  to 
object  to  that.  But  because  you  begin 
with  the  Del  Ferice  in  a  very  uncom- 
promising way,  it  would  take  a  long 
time  for  you  to  know  the  Montevarchi, 
for  instance." 

"Who  told  you  that  I  was  a 
foreigner  1"  asked  Maria  Consuelo, 
rather  abruptly. 

"  You  yourself " 

"That  is  good  authority!"  She 
laughed.  "  I  do  not  remember — ah  ! 
because  I  do  not  speak  Italian  1  You 
mean  that?  One  may  forget  one's 
own  language,  or  for  that  matter  one 
may  never  have  learned  it." 

"  Are  you  Italian,  then,  madame? " 
asked  Orsino,  surprised  that  she  should 
lead  the  conversation  so  directly  to  a 
point  which  he  had  supposed  must  be 
reached  by  a  series  of  tactful  ap- 
proaches. 

"  Who  knows  1    I  am  sure  I  do  not. 


414 


Doii  Orsino. 


My  father   was   Italian.      Does   that 
constitute  nationality  1 " 

"  Yes.  But  the  woman  lakes  the 
nationality  of  her  husband,  I  believe," 
said  Orsino,  anxious  to  hear  more. 

**  Ah,  yes, — poor  Aranjuez  !  "  Maria 
Consuelo's  voice  suddenly  took  that 
sleepy  tone  which  Orsino  had  heard 
more  than  once.  Her  eyelids  drooped 
a  little  and  she  lazily  opened  and  shut 
her  hand,  and  spread  out  the  fingers 
and  looked  at  them. 

But  Orsino  was  not  satisfied  to  let 
the  conversation  drop  at  this  point, 
and  after  a  moment's  pause  he  put  a 
decisive  question. 

**And  was  Monsieur  d' Aranjuez 
also  Italian  ? "  he  asked. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  she  asked 
in  the  same  indolent  tone.  "Yes, 
since  you  ask  me,  he  was  Italian,  poor 
man." 

Orsino  was  more  and  more  puzzled. 
That  the  name  did  not  exist  in  Italy 
he  was  almost  convinced.  He  thought 
of  the  story  of  the  Signor  Aragno, 
who  had  fallen  overboard  in  the  south 
seas,  and  then  he  was  suddenly  aware 
that  he  could  not  believe  in  anything 
of  the  sort.  Maria  Consuelo  did  not 
betray  a  shade  of  emotion,  either,  at 
the  mention  of  her  deceased  husband. 
She  seemed  absorbed  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  her  hands.  Orsino  had  not 
been  rebuked  for  his  curiosity,  and 
would  have  asked  another  question  if 
he  had  known  how  to  frame  it.  An 
awkward  silence  followed.  Maria 
Consuelo  raised  her  eyes  slowly  and 
looked  thoughtfully  into  Orsino's  face. 

"  I  see,"  she  said  at  last.  "  You 
are  curious.  I  do  not  know  whether 
you  have  any  right  to  be— have 
you?" 

"  I  wish  I  had  !  "  exclaimed  Orsino 
thoughtlessly. 

Again  she  looked  at  him  in  silence 
for  some  moments. 

"I  have  not  known  you  long 
enough,"  she  said.  "And  if  I  had 
known  you  longer,  perhaps  it  would 
not  be  different.  Are  other  people 
curious,  too]  Do  they  talk  about 
me?" 


'*  The  jDeople  I  know  do ;  but  they 
do  not  know  you.  They  see  your 
name  in  the  papers,  as  a  beautiful 
Spanish  princess.  Yet  everybody  is 
aware  that  there  is  no  Spanish  noble- 
man of  your  name.  Of  course  they 
are  curious.  They  invent  stories 
about  you,  which  I  deny.  If  I  knew 
more,  it  would  be  easier." 

"  Why  do  you  take  the  trouble  to 
deny  such  things'?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  a  change 
of  manner.  Once  more  she  leaned  for- 
ward and  her  face  softened  wonderfully 
as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  Can  you  not  guess  ? "  he  asked. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  very  unusual 
emotion,  not  at  all  in  harmony  with 
the  imaginary  character  he  had  chosen 
for  himself  and  which  he  generally 
maintained  with  considerable  success. 
Maria  Consuelo  was  one  person  when 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  laughing 
or  idly  listening  to  his  talk,  or  repuls- 
ing the  insignificant  declarations  of 
devotion  which  were  not  even  meant 
to  be  taken  altogether  in  earnest.  She 
was  pretty  then,  attractive,  graceful, 
feminine,  a  little  artificial,  perhaps, 
and  Orsino  felt  that  he  was  free  to 
like  her  or  not,  as  he  pleased,  but  that 
he  pleased  to  like  her  for  the  present. 
She  was  quite  another  woman  to-day, 
as  she  bent  forward,  her  tawny  eyes 
growing  darker  and  more  mysterious 
every  moment,  her  auburn  hair  casting 
wonderful  shadows  upon  her  broad 
pale  forehead,  her  lips  not  closed  as 
usual,  but  slightly  parted,  her  fragrant 
breath  just  stirring  the  quiet  air  Orsino 
breathed.  Her  features  might  be 
irregular.  It  did  not  matter.  She 
was  beautiful  for  the  moment  with  a 
kind  of  beautv  Orsino  had  never  seen, 
and  which  produced  a  sudden  and 
overwhelming  effect  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?  "  he  asked 
again,  and  his  voice  trembled  unex- 
pectedly. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  softly,  and 
she  touched  his  hand  almost  caress- 
ingly. 

But  when  he  would  have  taken  it, 
she  drew  back  instantly  and  was  once 


Don  Orsino. 


415 


more  the  woman  whom  he  saw  every 
day,  careless,  indifferent,  pretty. 

*'  Why  do  you  change  so  quickly  1 " 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  bending  to- 
wards her.  "  Why  do  you  snatch  your 
hand  away  ?  Are  you  afraid  of  me  1  " 
**  Why  should  I  be  afraid  1  Are  you 
dangerous?  " 

"  You  are.  You  may  be  fatal,  for 
all  I  know." 

"  How  foolish  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with 
a  quick  glance. 

**  You     are     Madame    d*Aranjuez, 
now,"  he  answered.     "  We  had  better 
change  the  subject." 
"  What  do  you  mean  1 " 
^^  A  moment  ago  you  were  Consuelo," 
he  said  boldly. 

"  Have  I  given  you  any  right  to  say 
that  ? " 

'^  A  little." 

*'  I  am  sorry.  I  will  be  more  care- 
ful. I  am  sure  I  cannot  imagine  why 
you  should  think  of  me  at  all,  unless 
when  you  are  talking  to  me,  and  then 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  called  by  my 
Christian  name.  I  assure  you,  you  are 
never  anything  in  my  thoughts  but 
His  Excellency  Prince  Orsino  Sara- 
cinesca,  with  as  many  titles  after  that 
as  may  belong  to  you." 

"  I  have  none,"  said  Orsino. 
Her  speech  irritated  him  strongly, 
iind  the  illusion  which   had   been   so 
powerful  a  few  moments  earlier  all  but 
disappeared. 

*'  Then  you  advise  me  to  go  and  find 
Del  Ferice  at  Monte  Citorio,"  he  ob- 
served. 

*' If  you  like."  She  laughed.  "There 
is  no  mistaking  your  intention  when 
you  mean  to  change  the  subject,"  she 
added. 

"  You  made  it  sufficiently  clear  that 
the  other  was  disagreeble  to  you." 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  do  so." 
"Then,  in  heaven's  name,  what  do 
you  mean,  madame  ? "  he  asked,  sud- 
denly losing  his  head  in  his  extreme 
annoyance. 

Maria  Consuelo  raised  her  eyebrows 
in  surprise.  "  Why  are  you  so  angry  1 " 
she  asked.  "  Do  you  know  that  it  is 
very  rude  to  speak  like  that  ? " 


"  I  cannot  help  it.  What  have  I 
done  to-day  that  you  should  torment 
me  as  you  do  ] " 

"  I  ?  I  torment  you  1  My  dear  friend, 
you  are  quite  mad." 

"  I  know  I  am.     You  make  me  so." 

"Will  you  tell  me  how?  What 
have  I  done  ?  What  have  I  said  1  You 
E/omans  are  certainly  the  most  extra- 
ordinary people.  It  is  impossible  to 
please  you.  If  one  laughs,  you  become 
tragic  !  If  one  is  serious,  you  grow 
gay  !  I  wish  I  understood  you 
better." 

"You  will  end  by  making  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  understand  myself," 
said  Orsino.  "  You  say  that  I  am 
changeable.     Then  what  are  you?  " 

"  Very  much  the  same  to-day  as 
yesterday,"  said  Maria  Consuelo 
calmly.  "  And  I  do  not  suppose  that 
I  shall  be  very  different  to-morrow." 

"  At  least  I  will  take  my  chance  of 
finding  that  you  are  mistaken,"  said 
Orsino,  rising  suddenly  and  standing 
before  her. 

"  Are  you  going  ? ''  she  asked,  as 
though  she  were  surprised. 

"  Since  I  cannot  please  you." 

"  Since  you  will  not." 

"  I  do  not  know  how." 

"  Be  yourself,  the  same  that  you 
always  are.  You  are  affecting  to  be 
some  one  else  to-day." 

"  I  fancy  it  is  the  other  way," 
answered  Orsino,  with  more  truth 
than  he  really  owned  to  himself. 

*'Then  I  prefer  the  affectation  to 
the  reality.*' 

"  As  you  will,  madame.  Good 
evening." 

He  crossed  the  room  to  go  out. 
She  called  him  back. 

"  Don  Orsino  ! " 

He  turned  sharply  round. 

"Madame?" 

Seeing  that  he  did  not  move,  she 
rose  and  went  to  him.  He  looked 
down  into  her  face  and  saw  that  it 
was  changed  again. 

"Are  you  really  angry? "  she  asked. 
There  was  something  girlish  in  the 
way  she  asked  the  question,  and,  for  a 
moment,  in  her  whole  manner. 


4L6 


Don  Orsino, 


Orsino  could  not  help  smiling.  But 
he  said  nothing. 

"  No,  you  are  not,"  she  continued. 
"I  can  see  it.  Do  you  know,  I  am 
very  glad?  It  was  foolish  of  me  to 
tease  you.  You  will  forgive  me  ? 
This  once  1 " 

"  If  you  will  give  me  warning  the 
next  time."  He  found  that  he  was 
looking  into   her  eyes. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  warning  ?  *' 
she  asked. 

They  were  very  close  together,  and 
there  was  a  moment's  silence.  Sud- 
denly Orsino  forgot  everything  and 
bent  down,  clasping  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissing  her  again  and  again.  It 
was  brutal,  rough,  senseless,  but  he 
could  not  help  it. 

Maria  Consuelo  uttered  a  short,  sharp 
cry,  more  of  surprise,  perhaps,  than  of 
horror.  To  Orsino' s  amazement  and 
confusion  her  voice  was  immediately 
answered  by  another,  which  was  that 
of  the  dark  and  usually  silent  maid 
whom  he  had  seen  once  or  twice. 
The  woman  ran  into  the  room, 
terrified  by  the  cry  she  had  heard. 

"Madame  felt  faint  in  crossing 
the  room,  and  was  falling  when  I 
caught  her,"  said  Orsino,  with  a  cool- 
ness that  did  him  credit. 

And,  in  fact,  Maria  Consuelo  closed 
her  eyes  as  he  let  her  sink  into  the 
nearest  chair.  The  maid  fell  on  her 
knees  beside  <her  mistress  and  began 
chafing  her  hands. 

**  The  poor  Signora !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  She  should  never  be  left  alone ! 
She  has  not  been  herself  since  the 
poor  Signore  died.  You  had  better 
leave  us,  sir  ;  I  will  put  her  to  bed 
when  she  revives.  It  often  happens, 
— pray  do  not  be  anxious  !  " 

Orsino  picked  up  his  hat  and  left 
the  room. 

"Oh,  it  often  happens,  does  it  1 " 
he  said  to  himself  as  he  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  him  and  walked 
down  the  corridor  of  the  hotel. 

He  was  more  amazed  at  his  own 
boldness  than  he  cared  to  own.  He 
had  not  supposed  that  scenes  of  this 
description    produced    themselves    so 


very   unexpectedly,  and,   as    it  were, 
without   any   fixed   intention    on  the 
part   of     the    chief    actor.       He    re- 
membered that  he  had  been  very  angry 
with  Madame  d'Aranjuez,  that  she  had 
spoken  half  a  dozen  words,  and  that 
he  had  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
kiss  her.      He  had   done   so,  and  he 
thought  with  considerable  trepidation 
of     their    next    meeting.     She      had 
screamed,  which  showed  that  she  was 
outraged    by   his   boldness.      It   was 
doubtful  whether  she   would   receive 
him  again.     The  best  thing  to  be  done, 
he  thought,  was  to  write  her  a  very 
humble  letter  of   apology,  explaining 
his  conduct  as  best  he  could.      This 
did    not   accord   very   well    with    his 
principles,  but  he  had  already  trans- 
gressed them  in  being  so  excessively 
hasty.     Her  eyes  had  certainly  been 
provoking  in  the  extreme,  and  it  had 
been  impossible  to  resist  the  expression 
on  her  lips.  But  at  all  events,  he  should 
have  begun  by  kissing  her  hand,  which 
she  would  certainly  not  have  withdrawn 
again  ;  then  he  might  have  put  his 
arm  round  her  and  drawn  her  head  to 
his    shoulder.      These    were    prelimi- 
naries in  the  matter  of  kissing  which 
it  was  undoubtedly  right  to  observe, 
and  he  had  culpably  neglected  them. 
He  had  been  abominably  brutal,  and 
he  ought  to  apologise.     Nevertheless, 
he  would  not  have  forfeited  the  re- 
collection of  that  moment  for  all  the 
other  recollections  of  his  life,  and  he 
knew  it.      As  he  walked  along   the 
street  he  felt  a  wild  exhilaration  such 
as  he  had  never  known  before.     He 
owned  gladly  to  himself  that  he  loved 
Maria  Consuelo,  and  resolutely  thrust 
away  the  idea  that  his  boyish  vanity 
was  pleased   by  the   snatching    of   a 
kiss. 

Whatever  the  real  nature  of  his 
delight  might  be  it  was  for  the  time 
so  sincere  that  he  even  forgot  to  light 
a  cigarette  in  order  to  think  over  the 
circumstances. 

Walking  rapidly  up  the  Corse  he 
came  to  Piazza  Colonna,  and  the  glare 
of  the  electric  light  somehow  recalled 
him  to  himself. 


Don  (h^sino. 


417 


"  Great  speech  of  the  Honourable 
Del  Ferice  !  "  yelled  a  newsboy  in  his 
ear.  "Ministerial  crisis!  Horrible 
murder  of  a  grocer  !  '* 

Orsino  mechanically  turned  to  the 
right  in  the  direction  of  the  Chambers. 
Del  Ferice  had  probably  gone  home, 
since  his  speech  was  already  in  print. 
But  fate  had  ordained  otherwise.  Del 
Ferice  had  corrected  his  proofs  on  the 
spot  and  had  lingered  to  talk  with  his 
friends  before  going  home.  Not  that 
it  mattered  much,  for  Orsino  could 
have  found  him  as  well  on  the  follow- 
ing day.  His  brougham  was  standing 
in  front  of  the  great  entrance  and  he 
himself  was  shaking  hands  with  a  tall 
man  under  the  light  of  the  lamps. 
Orsino  went  up  to  him. 

"  Could  you  spare  me  a  quarter  of 
an  hour?"  asked  the  young  man  in 
a  voice  constrained  by  excitement.  He 
felt  that  he  was  embarked  at  last  upon 
his  great  enterprise. 

Del  Ferice  looked  up  in  some  aston- 


ishment. He  had  reason  to  dread  the 
quarrelsome  disposition  of  the  Sara- 
cinesca  as  a  family,  and  he  wondered 
what  Orsino  wanted. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  Don  Orsino," 
he  answered,  with  a  particularly  Hand 
smile.  "  Shall  we  drive,  or  at  least 
sit  in  my  carriage?  I  am  a  little 
fatigued  with  my  exertions  to-day. '* 

The  tall  man  bowed  and  strolled 
away,  biting  the  end  of  an  unlit 
cigar. 

"It  is  a  matter  of  business,"  said 
Orsino,  before  entering  the  carriage. 
"  Can  you  help  me  to  try  my  luck, — 
in  a  very  small  way — in  one  of  the 
building-enterprises  you  manage  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  can,  and  will," 
answered  Del  Ferice,  more  and  more 
astonished.  "  After  you,  my  dear  Don 
Orsino,  after  you,"  he  repeated,  push- 
ing the  young  man  into  the  brougham. 
"Quiet  streets,  till  I  stop  you,"  he 
said  to  the  footman,  as  he  himself 
got  in. 


{To  he  contimied,) 


No.  390. — VOL.  Lxv 


E  E 


418 


VILLAGE    LIFE. 


The  approach  of  a  General  Election, 
a  potent  factor  in  which  will  be  the 
votes  of  agricultural  labourers,  has 
awakened  unusual  interest  in  their 
fortunes.  Politicians  vie  with  each 
other  in  holding  out  tempting  baits  to 
the  labourer.  The  most  urgent  need 
of  modern  policy,  they  explain,  is^  the 
improvement  of  his  condition,  his 
emancipation  from  the  tyranny  of 
squire  and  parson  and  from  the  dull 
monotony  of  a  life  of  toil  without 
amusement  and  without  hope.  With 
a  zeal  not  always  according  to  know- 
ledge the  Press  takes  up  the  cry. 
Special  Commissioners, — sharp,  clever 
penmen  in  populous  cities  pent — are 
sent  post-haste  to  scour  rural  England, 
and  report  in  a  series  of  telling  articles 
upon  its  condition,  its  people,  its 
habits  and  ways  of  thought,  its 
aspirations,  its  possibilities.  A  few 
cross-country  drives  with  communi- 
cative ostlers,  a  few  gossips  with  old 
women  at  cottage  doors,  with  labourers 
at  the  village  inn,  or  with  Radical 
cobblers  over  their  work  ;  and  your 
smart  newspaper-man  knows  all  about 
it.  He  gets  to  the  bottom  of  things  at 
once.  We  who  live  in  the  country 
and  know  something  about  the  English 
labourer, — the  slow  movement  of  his 
ideas,  his  extreme  reticence  if  ques- 
tioned, and  his  invariable  suspicious- 
ness of  strangers — are  astonished  at 
the  facility  with  which  the  correspond- 
ent has  "  tapped  "  him.  We  marvel 
how  cocksure  the  said  correspondent 
is  upon  points  which  after  years  of 
experience  are  not  clear  to  us.  Still 
more  do  we  marvel  at  the  utterances 
of  politicians, — even  men  "  of  light 
and  leading" — upon  village  life  as 
seen  through  political  spectacles. 
When  men  of  Cabinet  rank  see 
visions  of  fields,  now  deserted, 
**  waving  with  golden  grain  "  if  their 


party  retui*ns  to  power,  or  of  labourers 
happy,  contented,  and  hopeful  under 
the  fairy  gift  of  Village  Councils,  we 
ask  in  amazement.  Do  they  know  that 
they  are  talking  nonsense  )  or  are  they 
deliberately  trying  how  much  the 
public  will  swallow  1  And  when  men 
who  know  little  or  nothing  of  country 
life  and  have  never  lived  among  us, — 
men  whose  whole  interests  have  till 
only  the  other  day  lain  far  away  from 
Hodge  and  his  fortunes — unblushingly 
tell  us  that  their  one  desire  is  to  do 
him  justice  (for  the  trifling  considera- 
tion of  his  vote),  we  remember 
"  Three  acres  and  a  cow,"  and  wonder 
by  what  false  or  foolish  hopes  our 
labouring  friends  are  now  to  be  be- 
guiled in  their  longing  for  improve- 
ment. 

Improvement?  Yes,  I  know  there 
is  great  need  of  it.  I  am  no  optimist 
who  thinks  that  our  labourers  are  as 
well  off  as  they  ought  to  be  and  might 
be,  and  that  all  is  for  the  best  under 
the  best  possible  social  arrangements. 
I  know  that  the  labourer's  life  wants 
prospect,  variety,  and  hope ;  and  that 
in  too  many  cases  it  is  a  dreary  vista 
of  toil  ending  in  the  workhouse.  I 
know  the  sterling  qualities  of  the 
English  labourer  :  his  shrewd  common- 
sense,  his  native  courtesy  (when  not 
spoilt  by  agitators),  his  patient  en- 
durance; and  I  rejoice  to  see  those 
qualities  rewarded  (as  they  are  much 
of  tener  than  might  be  supposed)  by  a 
rise  in  life  and  by  a  position  of  inde- 
pendence. And  it  is  precisely  because 
I  recognise  that  his  position  needs  im- 
provement and  wish  that  he  should 
improve  it,  that  I  do  not  regard  the 
depopulation  of  our  villages,  of  which 
some  speak  as  if  it  were  an  evil  to  be 
remedied  at  all  costs,  as  an  unmixed 
disadvantage.  So  far  as  it  means  that 
the  refuse  of  the  agricultural  popula- 


Village  Life, 


419 


tion  crowd  into  towns  only  to  swell 
the  ranks  of  the  unemployed  and  pro- 
vide material  for  Mr.  Booth's  experi- 
ments, it  is  no  doubt  an  evil  for  society 
in  general,  if  not  for  the  villages  which 
thus   get   rid    of    superfluous   encum- 
brances.    If  it  means  desertion  of  the 
land  by  those  whose  labour  is  neces- 
sary for  cultivation,  it  is  an  evil  for 
the  villages  themselves  and  for  agri- 
culture.    But  so  far  as  it  means  that 
the  best   and   most   energetic   young 
men,   who    have    stuff   in   them  and 
capacity   for   getting    on,    are  taking 
their   labour  to  more  profitable  mar- 
kets,  it  is  surely  a  satisfactory  sign 
that  there  are  other  openings  for  the 
labourer  who  is  fit  to  fill  them,  and 
that  a  man  who  has  it  in  him  to  be 
something  better   than   a    farm-hand 
need  not  remain   bound   to  the  soil. 
One  is  sorry,  no  doubt,  to  see  the  pick 
of  our  young  men  going  off  to  the  rail- 
way, or  the  police-force,  or  to  shops, 
or  into  the  army  ;  but  can   we  blame 
them  1     Can  we  wish  to  keep  them  ? 
They  have  seen  perhaps  in  neighbour- 
ing cottages,  on  the  one  hand  a  pen- 
sioner from  the  army  or  the  police,  or 
a  retired  servant  from  some  London 
business,  spending  the  evening  of  life 
in  comfortable  independence,  and  on 
the  other  an  elderly  labourer  getting 
past  his  work  and  slowly  drifting  into 
paupensm.      That   is  an  object-lesson 
that  speaks  for  itself  to  a  young  fellow 
with  any  heart  in  him ;  and  it  is  only 
because  many  young  men  of  the  labour- 
ing class  have  so  little  of  that  quality, 
and  so  little  capacity  for  sticking  to 
anything,  that  they  remain  at  home 
at  all. 

The  assumption  that  depopulation 
of  villages  is  an  evil  urgently  heeding 
remedy  must  thus,  as  it  seems,  be 
taken  with  some  qualification  ;  and  so 
too  must  be  the  assumption  underlying 
much  that  is  said  or  written  about  the 
agricultural  labourer,  that  he  is  pre- 
vented from  I'ising  by  adverse  social 
circumstances.  To  listen  to  some 
people,  one  might  suppose  that,  if  the 
squire  and  the  parson  could  be  got  rid 
of,  the  labourer  would  rise  like  a  cork 


to  comfort   and    independence.      But 
such  social  reformers,  in  their  list  of 
obstacles  which  prevent  the  rise  of  the 
agricultural  labourer,  omit  what  nine 
times  out  of  ten  is  the  greatest  ob- 
stacle of   all, — the  labourer   himself. 
No  worker  for  wages,  it  may  be  safely 
said,  will  ever  better  his  position,  be 
society  reconstituted  as  it  may,  with- 
out thrift,  self-denial,  and  temperance. 
In  every  village  there  are  men  who 
have  thus  risen  ;  but  they  have  been 
steady,  saving,  temperate  men   from 
the  moment  they  began  to  earn  man's 
wages.      Their    contemporaries     who 
spent   their  surplus   earnings   at  the 
public-house  (pouring,  as  some  do,  four, 
five,  or  six  shillings  a  week  down  their 
throats),  and  married  at   five   or  six 
and  twenty  with  nothing  laid  by,  re- 
main where  they  were,  "  on  the  land  " ; 
sinking,    unless    they   can    shake   off 
their  drinking  habits,  into  the  ruck  of 
supernimierary     labourers,     employed 
when  work  is  plentiful,  but  out  of  work 
whenever  it  is  scarce.     If  parsons  and 
squires  were  done  away  with  and  Vil- 
lage Councils   established  to-morrow, 
what  would   that  do  for  these  men  ? 
Would  it  give  them  a  better  chance  of 
employment?     Would   it  make  them 
more  worth  employing  ?    I  do  not  for- 
get that  there  are  also  steady,  sober, 
respectable  men  who  do  not  rise,  and 
never  will   rise,    from   the  ranks    of 
field-labour ;   for  whom  life  is   often 
a  hard  struggle,  and  the  prospects  of 
old  age  uncertain.      I  wish   it   were 
otherwise ;    I    wish  that  wages  were 
high  enough  to  enable  steady  men  to 
make  better  provision  for  old  age,  and 
remove  all  fear  of  the  workhouse  as 
the  close  of  a  life  of  honest  toil.     But 
what  is  to  ensure  this  most  desirable 
result  ?  Getting  rid  of  the  squire, — the 
best  employer  of  labour   in   many  a 
parish  %    Turning  out  the  parson, — the 
one  resident  who  is  bound  by  the  mere 
fact  of  his  being  there  to  devote  him- 
self to  the  service  of  the  people  %     Re- 
turning Mr.  Gladstone  to  power,  to 
be  used  immediately  for  purposes  for 
which    the     English     labourer    cares 
nothing  %  These  are  the  nostrums  that 

E  E  2 


420 


Village  Life. 


are  now  being  so  well  advertised 
among  the  rural  voters  ;  bread  pills, 
most  of  them,  or  idle  incantations, 
useless  for  the  present  need  : 

Skilfid  leech 

Mutters  no  spells  o'er  S(n*e  that  needs  the 
knife.^ 

No  ;  there  is  a  deeper  question  be- 
hind,— a  question  which  the  Friends 
of  Labour  for  the  most  part  conveni- 
ently ignore — and  that  is  the  restora- 
tion of  the  agricultural  industry, 
paralysed  as  it  is  by  the  simple  fact 
that  for  some  years  past  it  has  been 
impossible  to  grow  corn  at  a  profit. 
There  is  the  kernel  of  the  whole  ques- 
tion. Fruit  -  growing,  jam  -  making, 
dairy-farming,  horse-breeding,  poultry- 
keeping — all  these  in  favourable  cir- 
cumstances may  come  in  to  help  the 
farmer.  They  may  or  may  not  be 
practicable  on  his  land  ;  it  is  by  no 
means  certain  that  they  will  always 
pay ;  at  best  they  are  subsidiary  to 
his  main  business.  But  one  thing,  and 
one  only,  will  restore  confidence  to 
agriculture ;  one  thing  only  will  enable 
the  farmer  to  pay  better  permanent 
wages  to  his  labourers, — and  that  is  a 
permanent  rise  in  the  price  of  corn. 
Till  this  is  reached,  wages  must  be 
low :  so  long  as  wages  are  low,  men 
will  migrate  to  better  themselves  ;  and 
not  even  Village  Councils  or  Disesta- 
blishment will  make  village  life  happier 
or  more  attractive. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  however  that 
those  who  object  to  certain  prevalent 
nostrums  for  arresting  the  decay  of 
village  life  are  opposed  to  all  attempts 
at  improving  the  labourer's  condition. 
All  that  we  object  to  is  that  he  should 
be  misled  by  false  hopes.  We  cordially 
welcome  everything  that  tends  to  his 
moral  and  physical  well-being,  and  to 
greater  brightness  and  happiness  in 
his  life.  Allotments,  reading-rooms, 
entertainments,  savings-banks,  cricket- 
clubs, — anything  that  helps  thrift,  or 
provides  rational  amusement,  must 
commend   itself   to    reasonable    men. 

1  Sophocles,  Ajax,  582  (Pluinptre's  trans- 
lation). 


The  modern  Friends  of   Labour   too- 
often  write  and  speak  as  if  all   such 
things  were  a  new  discovery   of  the 
party  now   desirous  of  office  ;   ignor- 
antly  or  wilfully  ignoring  the  mean& 
by  which  the  clergy  and  earnest  laity 
have  long  been  striving  to  benefit  their 
neighboui'S.       Only  those  who    have 
thus  striven  know  the  difficulty  of  the 
task.     It  is  easy  for  platform-orators 
or    newspaper-writers   to   talk    about 
starting  this  or  that  agency  for  good 
in  our  villages.     But  before  blaming 
those  who  have  not  started  such  things, 
or  who  have  failed  to  keep  them  go- 
ing, let  our  critics  come  and  try.     Liet 
them  realise  the  stupendous  vis  inertias 
of  country  folk  ;  let  them  find  out  that 
it  is  one  thing  to  collect  young  fellows 
together   for   a   club   or  any   similar 
object,  and  quite  another  to  get  them 
to  keep  to  anything  when  the  novelty 
has  worn  off.    The  one  recreation  that 
never  seems  to  pall  is  beer  and  the 
public-house ;  and  till  we  can  hit  upon 
something  that  shall  rival   these    at- 
tractions, nothing  that  we  do  to  amuse 
and  interest  the  labourer  will  be  more 
than  temporarily  successful.     I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  that  drunkenness  is  the 
labourer's   joy.      There  is  very  much 
less  of  it  than  there  used  to  be,  and 
many     regular     frequenters    of     the 
public-house   never  get  drunk.      But 
the  public-house  is  the  labourer's  club, 
the  place  where  he  is  at  ease  among 
his  mates,  and  can  say  what  he  thinks 
to  men  who  think  like  himself  without 
restraint   from   the    presence  of    his 
social    superiors.      On   the    tap-room 
bench  he  is  free  and  independent ;  no 
one  is  patronising  him  or  treating  him 
like  a  child  ;  he  amuses  himself  as  he 
pleases  and   when    he   pleases.      The 
village  concert  with  "  the  quality  "  in 
the    front    seats;    the    reading-room 
superintended  by  the  parson  ;  the  lec- 
ture or  the  technical  instruction  class, 
— all  these  are  well  in  their  way  for 
an  occasional  variety  ;    but  for  a  con- 
tinuance, the  social  independence  and 
free-and-easy  talk  of  the  public-house 
have    the    greater    charm.       If    the 
public-house  itself  could  be  so  refined 


Village  Life, 


421 


as  to  be  more  of  a  club  and  reading- 
room  and   less   of    a   mere   drinking- 
shop ;    if    its    beer    were    light    and 
wholesome,  and  its  customers  could,  if 
they  preferred,  be  served  with  tea  and 
coffee  instead ;  perhaps  it  might  even 
become    a    civilising    and    elevating 
agency  in   village  life.      But  this  is 
Utopian  so  long  as  public-houses  are 
one  and  all  "  tied  "  to  breweries,  and 
licenses  are  generally  granted  to  two 
or  three  times  as  many  houses  as  are 
sufficient  for  the  legitimate  wants  of  a 
village.     I  am  no  fanatic  advocate  of 
total  abstinence,  nor  do  I  believe  in 
jnaking  men  sober  by  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment. But  no  one  can  live  in  the  coun- 
try,  and   go   in   and   out  among  the 
people  without  becoming   profoundly 
convinced  that  drink   is   their   great 
curse,  and  the  cause  direct  or  indirect 
of   three-fourths  of   the   poverty  and 
misery    that    exist;    and    that,   this 
being  so,  far  too  many  temptations  are 
put  in  the  way  of  men  who  in  self- 
control  are  little  better  than  children, 
and  require  protection  against  them- 
selves.   I  do  not  grudge  Hodge  his  glass 
or  two  of  beer,  if  taken  wholesomely  at 
meals,  and  not  at  odd  times  upon  an 
empty  stomach ;  nor  his  evening  chat 
at  the  public-house,  so  long  as  it  does 
not  send  him  home  fuddled  and  quar- 
relsome.    But  1  fear  that,  as  things 
are  at  present,  beer  and  the  public- 
house  have  in  the  majority  of  cases 
a  demoralising  influence  upon  him. 

A  great  deal  has  been  made  of  the 
shortcomings  of  the  clergy,  and  the 
labourers  are  being  diligently  taught 
to  mistrust  the  parson, — I  presume  with 
an  eye  to  Disestablishment  in  the 
future.  I  am  not  concerned  now  to 
defend  my  order.  I  will  only  say  this 
with  respect  to  the  alleged  hatred  felt 
by  labourers  for  the  clergy,  that  so 
far  as  my  own  experience  goes  I 
have  seldom  met  with  anything  but 
civility  and  cordiality  from  parishion- 
ers of  the  labouring  class.  And  with 
respect  to  the  alleged  grievance  that 
the  parsons  like  to  get  everything  into 
their  own  hands,  all  I  can  say  is  that 
many  of  them  would  be  only  too  glad 


if  their  parishioners  would  take  a 
little  more  trouble  upon  themselves, 
instead  of  expecting  everything  to  be 
done  for  them.  Some  country  clergy 
may  be  fussy,  interfering,  narrow- 
minded  ;  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if 
we  were  all  perfect.  But  take  them 
all  round,  I  know  no  body  of  men 
more  conscientiously  bent  upon  doing 
all  the  good  they  can ;  and  that  from 
no  unworthy  motive,  such  as  the  cap- 
turing of  votes  at  an  election,  but 
from  real  interest  in  the  welfare  of 
the  very  men  who  are  being  so  care- 
fully taught  to  dislike  and  mistrust 
them.  I  say  this  the  more  freely, 
because  I  have  not  always  been  one 
of  them.  But  if,  in  academic  days, 
I  was  ever  tempted  to  think  lightly  of 
my  brethren  in  country  parishes,  a 
closer  acquaintance  with  their  work 
and  character  has  entirely  dispelled 
the  thought. 

Allotments  and  small  holdings  are 
sometimes  vaunted  as  a  panacea.  But 
the  latter  cannot  be  established  all  at 
once.  A  peasant  proprietary, — un- 
doubtedly a  great  source  of  stability, 
as  shown  in  the  case  of  France — 
cannot  be  artificially  created  by  simply 
dividing  large  holdings  among  labour- 
ers who  may  or  may  not  be  fit  to 
manage  a  farm  for  themselves ;  it 
must  be  the  slow  growth  of  suitable, 
social,  and  economic  conditions,  utilised 
by  industry,  thrift,  and  intelligence. 
And  as  for  allotments,  which  some 
persons  seem  to  regard  as  a  recent 
discovery  of  Radical  politicians,  the 
supposed  difficulty  of  obtaining  them 
is  largely  imaginary.  Even  forty 
years  ago  they  were  a  matter  of  course 
in  many  country  parishes,  and  few  are 
now  without  them.  In  most  places 
nowadays  a  labouring  man  can  get, 
in  the  shape  of  a  cottage-garden,  or  a 
field-garden,  or  both,  as  much  ground 
as  he  can  cultivate  in  his  leisure 
hours  ;  and  a  very  substantial  help  does 
he  find  it  towards  the  maintenance  of 
his  family.  I  speak,  of  course,  of  the 
steady  sober  men ;  upon  the  idle 
tippliiig  loafer  allotments,  or  anything 
else  that  can  be  devised  for  bis  im- 


422 


Village  Life, 


provement,  will  probably  be  thrown 
away.  He  will  give  you  his  vote, 
perhaps,  if  you  promise  him  sufficient 
pickings  out  of  other  men's  property ; 
but  he  will  do  you  no  credit  after- 
wards. Allotments  are  good  so  far 
as  they  go,  and  no  doubt  help  to  make 
the  labourer  more  contented.  But 
they  cannot  satisfy  the  discontent 
which  comes  of  desire  for  larger 
wages ;  they  cannot  still  the  natural 
and  partly  laudable  unrest  which 
drives  the  more  energetic  and  capable 
young  men  from  their  native  fields  to 
better  their  chances  of  earning  money. 
Do  what  we  can,  we  shall  not  per- 
suade such  men  to  stop  at  home,  nor 
is  it  perhaps  well  that  we  should. 
They  pass  out  from  among  us,  and  we 
see  them  no  more.  Some  rise  and 
prosper;  many  of  them  never  find 
their  El  Dorado ;  many  learn  by  bitter 


experience  that  poverty  is  as  hard  to 
bear  in  the  town  as  in  the  country. 
But  if  they  are  restless,  they  must  go, 
and  fight  their  battle  for  themselves. 

The  problems  of  agricultural  life 
are  well  worth  the  attention  of  states- 
men ;  for  the  prosperity  of  agriculture^ 
and  the  welfare  of  those  who  till  the 
soil,  are  vital  to  our  country.  But 
the  question  must  be  grappled  with  in 
a  far-seeing  and  statesmanlike  spirit. 
If  the  only  thing  that  rouses  interest 
in  the  labourer's  condition  is  an  ig- 
noble scramble  for  his  vote  on  the 
eve  of  a  General  Election,  if  the 
labourer  himself  is  to  become,  like 
unhappy  Ireland,  a  shuttlecock  be- 
tween rival  office-seekers,  the  problem 
will  remain  unsolved,  at  least  for  this 
generation. 

T.  L.  Papillox. 


423 


HOIIACE.1 


There  is  a  scene  in  Silas  Mamer 
which,  though  not  perhaps  the  fittest 
introduction  in  the  world  to  an  article 
on  classic  poetry,  expresses  so  well  the 
feeling  which  is  often  aroused  in  us  by 
a  particular  species  of  criticism,  that 
we  must  crave  the  indulgence  of  our 
readers  for  introducing  it  on  the  pre- 
sent occasion.  Says  Ben  Winthrop, 
the  wheelwright,  to  Solomon  Macey, 
the  clerk  :  "  Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and 
me  are  two  folks  ;  when  I've  got  a  pot 
of  good  ale  I  like  to  swallow  it,  and 
do  my  inside  good,  instead  o'  smelling 
and  staring  at  it  to  see  if  I  can't  find 
fault  wi'  the  brewing." 

It  may  be  thought  that  if  we  carried 
out  Mr.  Winthrop' s  principle  to  the 
letter  we  should  find  it  difficult  to 
justify  any  kind  of  criticism  whatever. 
But  the  reader  must  take  note  that 
this  rustic  philosopher  makes  it  a  con- 
dition that  the  ale  shall  be  good.  That 
point  must  be  established  first ;  and 
this  much  being  conceded,  he  was 
evidently  of  opinion  that  further  and 
more  minute  examination  was  only 
waste  of  breath.  We  must  confess 
that  some  such  thoughts  as  these  have 
occasionally  passed  through  our  minds 
when  reading  reviews  of  great  writers 
on  whom  the  verdict  of  mankind  has 
long  since  been  pronounced  :  on  whom 
tlie  world  has  looked  and  seen  that 
they  were  good  ;  and  whose  power 
over  our  hearts  and  minds  no  change 
of  taste  can  materially  affect  while 
literature  and  civilisation  last.  To 
point  out  the  beauties  and  the  blem- 
ishes of  even  the  greatest  poets  whose 
reputation  has  endured  for  ages  is  a 
work  not  unworthy  of  the  highest 
literary  faculties,  and  one  that  may  be 

^  Horace  aiul  tha  Eleguw  Poets;  by  W. 
Y.  Sellar,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  late  Professor  of 
Humanity  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
formerly  Fellow  of  Oriel  College.  Clarendon 
IVpss,  Oxford,  1892. 


performed    with    advantage    for    the 
benefit  of  each  succeeding  generation 
by  writers    more    in    harmony   with 
contemporary  thought  and  taste  than 
those  of  an    earlier  period.     By  this 
kind  of  criticism  both  the  poet  and  the 
reader  profit,  and  it  is  one  of  which  we 
ought  never  to  grow  tired.     But  there 
is  another  kind  of  which  we  must  own 
to  have  become  somewhat  intolerant, 
and  that  is  the  inquiry  into  the  origi- 
nality, the  sincerity,  the  morality,  and 
what  not,  of  the  bright  particular  stars 
which    have    shone    so    long    in    the 
literary  firmament,  and  whosiB  lustre 
can    never   be   dimmed    by    any   dis- 
coveries which  are  likely  to  be  made 
now  touching  their  possession  of  these 
qualities.      Nobody  derives  less  plea- 
sure from  Virgil  because  he  is  indebted 
to  Ennius  and  Theocritus  and  ApoUo- 
nius  Khodius,  to  say  nothing  of  Homer. 
And  even  much  of  the  accepted  criti- 
cism on  Homer  himself  seems  to  point 
to  the  existence  of  a  previous  ballad 
poetry  which  Homer  wove  into  a  whole, 
not  sometimes  without  visible  indica- 
tion of  the  process.     If  the  Homeric 
poems  are  the  work  of  a  single  hand, 
Homer  was  not  the  first  who  sang  the 
wrath    of    Achilles  and    the   fate   of 
Hector. 

Is  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
all  the  great  masterpieces  of  literature 
have  been  preceded  by  imperfect  and 
desultory  efforts  in  the  same  direction  ? 
Greek  tragedy  and  comedy,  the  Roman 
Epic  and  the  Roman  Satire,  as  we 
know  them  in  their  full  bloom,  had 
all  been  preceded  by  cruder  endeavours 
of  which  few  remains  have  been  pre- 
served. May  we  not  take  it  for 
granted  that  before  any  kind  of 
literature  culminates  in  that  perfect 
form  which  perpetuates  its  existence 
and  in  virtue  of  which  it  is  called 
classic,  it  has  put  forth  many  previous 
shoots   which   never   arrived    at  ma- 


424 


Hwace. 


turity,  destined  only  to  enrich  subse- 
quent laboui*ers  in  the  same  lield  who 
have  naturally  and  legitimately  incor- 
porated in  their  own  more  finely 
wrought  works  whatever  they  found 
worthy  of  preservation  in  the  ruder 
composition  of  their  predecessors  1  By 
some  such  process  at  all  events  the 
great  works  of  antiquity  were  built 
up ;  and  it  seems  rather  late  in  the 
day  now  to  be  charging  their  authors 
with  plagiarism,  more  especially  when 
we  remember  that  English  literature 
is  no  stranger  to  the  practice,  and 
that  its  most  conspicuous  ornament 
was  also  the  most  addicted  to  it. 

These  reflections  are  suggested  by  a 
question    which    has     recently     been 
raised  again  in   a   quarter  where  we 
are  accustomed  to  look  for  liberal  and 
graceful  scholarship,  and  that  is  the 
originality  of   the  poet  Horace,  who 
according  to  a  wiiter  in  the  Qua/rterly 
Review  was  more  deeply  indebted  to 
Lucilius  than  has  been  generally  sup- 
posed, or  4}han  even  Professor  Sellar, 
our  greatest  authority  on  the  Koman 
poets  of  the  Republican  and  Augustan 
eras,  appears  to  have  recognised.    This 
position   is   supported  with  much   in- 
genuity, a  copious  array  of   evidence 
and  a  considerable  display  of  learning, 
leaving  however  the  impression,  though 
doubtless  an  incorrect  one,  that  the  re- 
viewer had  either  not  read  or  had  for- 
gotten what  Professor  Sellar   himself 
says  upon  the  subject  in  the  first  volume 
of  his  work  ^  published   nearly  thirty 
years  ago.     He  there  covers  the  whole 
ground  now  traversed  by  the  Quarterly 
reviewer,  and  scarcely  misses  a  single 
one  of  the  points  to  which  the  latter 
calls    attention.      In   the  chapter   on 
Lucilius  he  gives  the  earlier  Roman 
satirist    full   credit    for   all   that   the 
reviewer  claims   for    him.      Horace's 
obligations  to  him  are  allowed  in  full ; 
but  he  does  not  attach  quite  the  same 
importance     to    them     as    does    the 
reviewer. 

The  truth   seems  to  be  that  what- 
ever Horace  may  have  borrowed  in  the 
shape  of  incident  or  anecdote,  or  even 
suggestion,  from  those  who  went  before 
^  Roman  Poets  oftfie  E^public,  1863. 


him, — a  (juestion,  as  it  seeuis  to  us,  of 
comparative  insignificance — his  satire 
in  itself  was  all  his  own  and  peculiar 
to  himself.  Persius  contrasts  him  with 
Lucilius  in  a  well-known  passage : — 

Secuit  Lucilius  urbem, 
Te  Liipe,  te  Muci,  et  genuinuni  fregit  in 

illis. 
Omne  vafer  vitium  rident  Flaccus  amico 
Tangit,    et    admissus    circum    prsecordia 

ludit.i 

Now  this  is  exactly  the  satire  of 
Addison  with  whom  Horace  has  so 
often  been  compared.  If  we  take 
Thackeray's  description  of  Addison  in 
the  Lectures  on  tlie  Humourists  it  may 
stand  mutatis  imitandis  for  a  descrip- 
tion of  Horace.  Nor  is  a  strong 
resemblance  wanting  between  Horace 
and  Thackeray  himself.  A  great  part 
of  the  Book  of  Snobs  is  compiled  quite 
in  the  spirit  of  the  Roman  Satirist — 
Jenkins  the  bore.  Wiggle  the  lady- 
killer,  the  people  who  are  for  ever 
speculating  about  their  neighbours' 
incomes,  the  worship  of  rank  and 
riches,  are  all  essentially  Horatian,  as 
well  as  the  Tory  Foxhunters  in  The 
Freeholder  and  the  coffee-house  politi- 
cian so  deliciously  described  in  No. 
403  of  The  Spectator,  Horace's  obli- 
gations to  Lucilius  do  not  detract  in 
the  smallest  degree  from  his  title  to 
originality  as  the  founder  of  that  kind 
of  satire  which  has  been  most  to  the 
taste  of  modern  time.  If  Lucilius 
was  the  father  of  political  satire, 
Horace  was  just  as  certainly  the 
father  of  social  satire.  But  if  we 
once  begin  to  trace  the  various  rivers 
of  literature  to  their  respective  sources 
we  are  soon  lost  among  primeval 
swamps  and  forests.  In  the  mean- 
time there  stands  Horace, — teres  a^ue 
rotundus — a  poet  who  has  delighted 
twenty  centuries,  and  will  delight 
twenty  more  if  the  world  lasts  so 
long.  Why  should  we  be  so  curious 
to  know  what  he  is  made  of  ?  If  he 
has  rescued  from  obli^^on  portions  of 

'  And  yet  arch  Horace,  when  lie  strove  to 

meud, 
Probed  eveiy  foible  of  his  smiling  friend. 
Played  lightly  round  and  round  the  peccant 

part, 
And  won  nnfelt  an  entrance  to  the  heart. 


Horace, 


425 


the  work  of  writers  who  would  other- 
wise have  perished,  we  should  rather  be 
grateful  to  him  than  reproachful.  At 
all  events  we  have  got  Horace,  and  we 
have  not  got  Lucilius.  A  wise  man 
will  take  him  as  he  finds  him,  to  do 
his  inside  good  without  asking  too 
many  questions  about  the  brewing. 

We  must  remember  too  that  both  in 
the  Satires,  Epistles,  and  Odes,  Horace 
was  doing  what  we  have  described  in 
the  beginning  of  this  article,  impart- 
ing form  and  finish  to  what  had  hitherto 
been  rude  and  desultory.  Mark  Pat- 
tison's  introduction  to  the  Essay  on 
Man  may  be  read  together  with  Mr. 
Cellar's  new  published  Essay  on  Hora^ie 
in  illustration  of  the  statement.  Mr. 
Sellar  dwells  on  it  repeatedly.  **  Ho- 
race," he  says  (p.  105),  "saw  that 
fervour  of  feeling  and  a  great  spirit 
which  were  the  gifts  of  the  old  writers 
were  not  enough  to  produce  immortal 
works   like   those    produced    by    the 

genius  of    Greece The   work 

which  had  to  be  done  in  his  time  could 
not  be  done  by  those  powers  alone. 
That  work  was  to  find,  at  last,  the 
mastery  of  form,  rhythm,  and  style,  the 
perfection  and  moderation  of  workman- 
ship which  would  secure  for  the  efforts 
of  Iloman  genius  as  sure  a  passport  to 
immortality  as  had  been  secured  for  the 
master-pieces  of  Greek  literature." 
In  a  word,  Horace  represented  and  led 
the  literary  craving  after  form  which 
followed  an  age  of  lawless  and  licen- 
tious exuberance ;  these  words  are  Mr. 
Pattison's  who,  laying  down  very  justly 
that  form  is  the  condition  of  all  art, 
describes  Pope  as  the  greatest  literary 
artist  except  Gray  which  our  language 
has  produced.  Mr.  Sellar,  we  presume, 
would  say  that  Horace  was  the  great- 
est literary  artist  which  the  Latin 
language  had  produced,  not  perhaps 
excepting  even  Virgil.  The  admirers 
of  Horace  might  well  be  satisfied 
to  rest  his  claims  to  distinction 
on  this  achievement  alone.  But  we 
may  go  further  than  this.  When, 
after  a  series  of  efforts  in  any  one 
department  of  literature,  vigorous 
perhaps  and  even  passionate,  but  raw. 


harsh,  and  undisciplined,  the  man  at 
last  appears  who  takes  up  the  work  and 
succeeds  where  his  predecessors  failed, 
brings  symmetry  and  regularity  out  of 
disproportion  and  disorder,  harmony 
out  of  discord,  and  chiselled  beauty 
out  of  the  half -wrought  marble,  such 
a  man  we  say  is  a  creator  and  deserves 
all  the  honours  of  an  original  writer. 
If  there  are  any  who  prefer  the  rough 
blocks  to  the  finished  palace  we  would 
only  say  to  them  what  Dr.  Johnson 
said,  when  told  by  somebody  that  he 
preferred  Donne's  satires  to  Pope's 
adaptation,  "  I  cannot  help  that.  Sir." 
So  much  then  of  Horace  and  Lucilius. 
Nobody  can  possibly  recognise  the  ob- 
ligations of  the  junior  to  the  senior 
more  fully  than  Mr.  Sellar;  but  he 
sees  clearly  enough  that  it  is  no  matter 
of  reproach  to  him.  The  question  of 
Horace's  "  sincerity  "  is  closely  allied 
with  the  above ;  and  here  again 
Mr.  Sellar' s  advocacy  is  triumphant. 
That  scenes  and  characters  in  the 
Satires  are  not  so  much  direct  repro- 
ductions of  particular  incidents  or  per- 
sons as  generalisations  from  what  he 
had  witnessed  in  the  varied  experience 
of  life  may  be  true  enough.  He  may 
never  have  dined  with  Nasidienus  or 
have  met  that  famous  bore  in  the  Via 
Sacra.  He  may  have  taken  parts  of 
his  descriptions  from  Lucilius,  but 
Horace  we  may  be  sure  must  have 
known  many  such  hosts  as  Nasidienus 
and  must  have  been  present  at  many 
similar  entertainments.  He  must  have 
met  in  his  time  many  such  nuisances 
as  the  troublesome  gentleman  from 
whom  he  was  delivered  by  Apollo; 
and  moreover  in  this  satire  Horace 
had  a  special  purpose  to  serve, — to 
show  up  the  absurdities  and  false- 
hoods current  in  Koman  society  about 
Maecenas's  "  set,"  as  they  are  current 
in  all  societies  about  similar  exclusive 
circles.  The  street  Arab  in  Sybil  who 
professed  to  tell  his  pal  what  the 
"nobs"  had  for  supper  was  not  wider 
of  the  mark  than  the  gossips  who 
swarmed  at  Home  just  as  they  now 
swarm  in  London.  The  bore  in  Lu- 
cilius may  have  suggested  to  him  a 


426 


Horace, 


L 

,! 
I 

I 
■r 


very  good  way  of  carrying  this  purpose 
into  effect.  But  why  linger  over  this 
kind  of  criticism  %  Did  Addison  ever 
see  Will  Wimble,  or  that  excellent 
inn-keeper  who  was  three  yards  in 
girth  and  the  best  Church  of  England 
man  on  the  road  %  Did  either  Dick 
Ivy  or  Lord  Potato  ever  dine  with 
Smollett  ? 

It  is  sometimes  asked  whether 
Horace  was  sincere  in  his  satire,  in 
his  patriotism,  in  his  amatory  poems, 
and  in  his  professed  love  of  nature 
and  the  country.  As  for  his  satire  he 
was  as  sincere  as  a  gentleman  need  be. 
He  had  not  the  soeva  indignatio  of  Car- 
lyle,  or  Swift,  or  Juvenal.  How  could 
he  have  ?  He  could  not  break  butter- 
Hies  on  wheels.  But  he  was  as  sincere 
as  Addison.  In  his  Meditations  in 
Westminster  Abbey  Addison  says  that 
when  he  meets  with  the  grief  of 
parents  on  a  tombstone  his  heart  melts 
with  compassion.  It  did  not  melt 
very  much,  Thackeray  thought,  and 
we  perfectly  agree  with  him.  Are 
we  to  suppose  that  Thackeray  himself 
was  inspired  by  any  burning  wrath 
when  he  drew  his  pen  upon  the 
snobs  ?  Horace  had  probably  just  as 
much  and  just  as  little  real  anger  in 
his  heart  when  he  laughed  at  Catius 
and  Tigellinus.  He  was  sincere  enough 
in  ridiculing  whatever  was  ridiculous ; 
and  in  the  Satires  at  all  events  he 
aimed  at  nothing  more  than  this.  Mr. 
Sellar  thinks  that  in  the  Epistles  we 
see  Horace  in  the  character  of  a  moral 
teacher.  But  we  should  question 
whether  this  object  stood  first  with 
iiim  in  the  composition  of  his  letters. 
Horace  had  a  turn  for  moralising. 
We  see  it  everywhere ;  and  the  savoir 
vivre  and  savoir /aire  are  what  he  was 
specially  fond  of  dwelling  upon.  He 
gives  excellent  advice  to  young  men ; 
and  is  evidently  rather  vain  of  his 
own  knowledge  of  society,  and  of  the 
way  to  succeed  in  it. 

Quo  tandem  pacto  deceat  majoribus  uti. 

This  is  the  burden  of  his  song,  and 
whenever  he  recurs  to  it  his  name  is 
Horatius,  and  his  foot  is  on  his  native 


heath.  But  'of  moral  philosophy  in 
the  stricter  sense  of  the  term  we  do 
not  see  that  the  Epistles  contain  much. 
They  are  letters  which  a  highly  cul- 
tivated and  accomplished  man  of  the 
world,  whose  vocation  was  literature 
and  whose  tastes  led  him  towards 
ethics,  might  be  expected  to  write  to 
congenial  spirits,  whether  statesmen, 
lawyers,  or  men  of  letters.  But  his 
philosophy  is  the  practical  philosophy 
which  lies  upon  the  surface,  which  most 
men  who  combine  intellectual  power 
with  common  sense  are  prepared  to 
follow,  and  which  has  little  to  do  with 
the  learning  of  the  schools.  Sir  George 
Trevelyan  says  that  his  uncle,  Lord 
Macaulay,  was  fond  of  pacing  the 
cloisters  of  Trinity  discoursing  "  The 
picturesque  but  somewhat  esoteric 
philosophy  which  it  pleased  him  to 
call  by  the  name  of  metaphysics.  "^ 
We  should  say  that  if  we  substitute 
moral  philosophy  for  metaphysics  this 
was  what  Horace  was  fond  of  doing. 

Horace's  patriotism  was  also  of  the 
common  sense  species.  If  he  could  not 
have  the  Republic  he  would  make  the 
best  of  the  Empire.  He  was  no  ir- 
reconcilable. He  would  not  waste 
his  life  in  sighing  like  Lucan  over  a 
fallen  cause  and  a  political  system 
which  could  never  be  recalled,  and  which 
it  is  not  certain  that  it  was  desirable 
to  recall.  He  must  have  seen  that  the 
two  great  parties  into  which  the 
Republic  was  divided,  and  which  in  its- 
better  days  kept  the  balance  between 
order  and  liberty,  had  gradually  de- 
generated into  selfish  factions  with 
scarcely  the  semblance  of  a  principle 
between  them.  Was  it  really  the  part 
of  a  patriot  to  hope  for  the  restoration 
of  senatorial  or  parliamentary  govern- 
ment? Was  not  an  enlightened  des- 
potism a  good  exchange  for  Marius 
and  Sulla  ?  Whether  any  such  thoughts 
passed  through  Horace's  mind  or  not, 
he  accepted  the  defeat  of  his  own  party' 
as  an  accomplished  fact  and  with  con- 
siderable equanimity,  and  was  quite 
ready  to  pray  for  Augustus  as  the 
saviour  of  society.  The  feeling  which 
must  have  been  entertained  by  many 


Horace, 


427 


educated  and  thoughtful  Romans,  if 
not  by  the  whole  upper  and  middle 
class  who  had  gone  through  a  century 
of  revolutions,  is  expressed  in  the 
words  of  Virgil : — 

Di  patrii,  Indigetes,  et  Romule  Vestaque 

mater, 
Quie  Tuscum  Tiberim  et  Romana  Palatia 

servas, 
Hunc  saltern  e verso  juvenem   succurrere 

soeclo 
Ne  prohibete  ! 

That  was  the  end  of  the  whole  matter. 
The  first  necessity  for  Rome  was  the 
restoration  of  law,  order,  and  perma- 
nent tranquillity.  One  hand  alone 
seemed  capable  of  ensuring  these 
blessings,  and  Horace,  and  Virgil,  and 
the  other  leading  men  of  letters  at 
Rome  became  its  willing  instruments. 
Professor  Sellar  divides  Horace's 
Odes  into  (1)  The  National,  Religious, 
and  Ethical  Odes  ;  (2)  The  lighter 
Poems  in  the  Greek  Measure,  ipoyrtKa 
and  (rvfiTroTLKa,  and  (3)  The  Occasional 
Poems  of  Horace's  own  life  and  experi- 
ence. The  National  Odes  express  the 
sentiments  referred  to  in  the  above 
paragraph.  But  Mr.  Sellar  does  not 
bestow  unqualified  commendation  on 
them.  He  thinks  that  the  dulcedo 
otii  spoken  of  by  Tacitus  carried  Horace 
and  other  honest  Imperialists  a  little 
too  far.  In  the  second  ode  of  the 
Fourth  Book  he  detects  the  first  notes 
of  that  servile  adulation  "  which  was 
the  bane  of  the  next  century."  Of 
course  we  must  all  admit  that  settled 
order,  security  for  life  and  property, 
all  the  conditions  in  fact  under  which 
alone  the  ordinary  business  of  civilised 
communities  can  be  conducted,  have 
sometimes  to  be  purchased  at  a  great 
price.  And  so  it  was  at  Home.  The 
defence  of  those  who  paid  it  is  that 
nothing  else  was  possible.  The  mis- 
chief was  already  done.  The  Roman 
aristocracy  and  the  Roman  populace 
between  them  had  made  free  institu- 
tions unworkable.  Cicero  pinned  all 
his  hopes  on  the  equestrian  order,  much 
as  Sir  Robert  Peel  did  afterwards  on 
the  middle  classes.  But  it  was  too 
late  at  Home.   Public  spirit  and  politi- 


cal faith  were  dead,  drowned  in  the  sea 
of  blood  which  the  great  factions  had 
poured  out.  There  was  no  help  for 
it.  Concurrently  with  this  revolution 
began  the  decay  of  Roman  character, 
and  the  so-called  "  adulation  "  which 
has  been  so  much  complained  of  by 
modern  writers  was  only  what  might 
have  been  expected.  Moreover  a  great 
part  of  it  was  purely  formal,  and  meant 
no  more  than  the  words  in  the  liturgy, 
"Our  most  religious  and  gracious 
Sovereign,"  while  part  of  it  was 
legitimately  based  upon  an  article  in 
the  Pagan  creed  which  even  Tacitus 
did  not  entirely  reject.  It  seems  to 
us  that  Mr.  Sellar's  use  of  the  word 
"  adulation "  is  a  little  inconsistent 
with  what  he  says  elsewhere  of  the 
deification  of  the  Emperor. 

It  is  in  the  Odes  expressive  of  national 
and  imperial  sentiment,  that  we  seem  to 
find  most  of  real  meaning  in  the  religious 
language  of  Horace.  The  analogy  between 
Jove  in  Heaven  and  Augustus  on  Earth  i& 
often  hinted  at ;  and  the  ground  of  this 
analogy  is  indicated  by  the  emphatic  stress 
laid  on  the  triumph  of  Jove  over  the 
Giants, 

Clari  Giganteo  triumpho  (iii.  1). 

It  is  the  supremacy  of  order  in  the  world 
of  nature  and  human  affairs  which  the 
imagination  of  Horace  sees  personified  in 
that  Jove, 

Qui  terram  inertem,  qui  mare  temperat 
Ventosum,  et  urbes,  regnaque  tristia, 
Divosque  mortalesque  turbas 

Imperio  regit  unus  aequo  (iii.  4). 

Augustus  is  regarded  as  the  minister  and 
vice-regent  on  earth  of  this  supreme 
power, — 

Te  minor  laetum  reget  sequus  orbem — 

and  it  is  on  this  ground  that  a  divine 
function  is  attributecl  to  him. 

If  it  was  the  popular  belief  that 
great  heroes  and  statesmen  were  ad- 
mitted to  the  company  of  the  gods 
after  death,  it  was  a  very  short  step 
from  this  belief  to  the  conception  of 
the  head  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the 
ruler  of  the  modern  world,  as  a  god 
designate,  and  entitled  therefore  even 
before  death  to  some  kind  of  worship. 


428 


Horace, 


Of  Horace's  own  religious  belief  he 
makes  no  secret.  He  was  at  heart  a 
Lucretian.  But  he  looked  on  the 
poetical  superstitions  of  the  Pagan 
world  with  the  eye  of  a  man  of  taste ; 
much  as  many  men  at  the  present  day 
may  regard  the  saints  and  angels  of 
the  Romish  Church,  which  bring  man- 
kind into  such  close  communion  with 
another  world  and  appeal  so  power- 
fully to  the  imagination.  Horace  could 
not  have  been  insensible  to  the  charm. 
He  did  not  fail,  says  Mr.  Sellar, — 

To  recognise  in  the  religious  forms  and 
beliefs  of  the  past  a  salutary  power  to  heal 
some  of  the  evils  of  the  present,  and  also  a 
material  by  which  his  lyrical  art  could 
move  the  deeper  sympathies  and  charm 
the  fancy  of  his  contemporaries.  Nor 
need  we  suppose  the  feeling  out  of  which 
his  world  of  supernatural  beings  and 
agencies  is  recreated  altogether  insincere. 
Though  the  actual  course  of  his  life  may 
be  regulated  in  accordance  with  the  nega- 
tive conclusions  of  the  understanding,  the 
imagination  of  a  poet  like  Horace  and 
Lucretius  is  moved  to  the  recognition  of 
some  transcendent  power  and  agency, 
hidden  in  the  world  and  yet  sometimes 
apparent  on  the  surface,  which  it  associ- 
ates with  some  concern  for  the  course  of 
nature  and  human  affairs,  and  even  of 
individual  destiny.  It  is  natural  for  the 
poet  or  artist  to  embody  the  suggestion  of 
this  mysterious  feeling  which  gives  its 
transcendent  quality  to  his  poetry  or  art, 
in  the  forms  of  traditional  belief  into 
which  he  breathes  new  life. 

Horace  might  have  been  conscious  of 
some  such  feeling  as  is  so  beautifully 
expressed  in  these  well-known  lines  : 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion. 
The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny 

mountain, 
Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring. 
Or  chasms  and  watery  depths  ;  all  these 

have  vanish'd. 
They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 
But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language, 

still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old 

names. 
And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are 

§one, 
Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 


With  man  as  with  their  friend;   and  to 

the  lover 
Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down :   and  even  at  thif? 

day 
'Tis  Jupiter  that  brings  whate'er  is  great, 
And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that's 

fair. 

Along  with  the  apology  for  the 
Empire  which  the  literature  of  the 
day  was  called  on  to  supply  was  the 
further  object  of  reviving  a  belief  in 
the  old  Italian  religion  and  the  old 
Latin  deities.  How  exquisitely  Vir- 
gil performed  his  share  of  the  task 
no  scholar  requires  to  be  told.  But 
he  was  less  under  the  influence  of 
Greek  ideas  than  Horace.  And  there 
is  a  reality  and  "a  reverential  piety" 
in  his  treatment  of  the  subject,  which 
we  miss  in  the  lyric  poet,  who  "  sur- 
rounds the  gods  and  goddesses  of  Italy 
with  the  associations  of  Greek  art  in 
poetry."  It  was  because  he  found 
these  divinities  in  his  favourite  Greek 
authors  that  he  was  willing  to  people 
the  groves  and  valleys  of  Italy  with 
the  same  order  of  beings.  Mr.  Sellai* 
is  seen  at  his  best  in  this  part  of  his 
subject. 

Horace's  poetical  conscience, — if  we 
may  use  the  phrase — held  him  clear 
of  all  blame  in  writing  as  he  did  of 
the  nymphs  and  the  Fauns,  of  Pan 
and  Bacchus.  He  lived,  we  may  be- 
lieve, like  many  other  eminent. men  of 
letters,  two  lives.  Walking  about  the 
streets  of  Rome,  playing  at  ball,  look- 
ing on  at  the  jugglers,  or  dining  with 
Maecenas,  he  was  the  shrewd  man  of 
the  world,  the  Epicurean  sceptic  to 
whom  the  creed  of  his  ancestors  was 
foolishness.  Far  awav  amid  the  soli- 
tary  scenes  of  nature,  other  thoughts 
and  other  ideas  may  have  taken  pos- 
session of  him.  He  may  have  asked 
himself  whether  the  old  mythology 
was  not,  after  all,  something  more 
than  a  beautiful  dream  ;  whether  the 
forces  of  nature  might  not  sometimes 
assume  the  shapes  which  religion  had 
assigned  to  them;  and  whether  such 
a  belief  was  not  more  soothing  to  the 
human  spirit  than  the  cold  negationa 


Horace. 


42& 


of  the  atheistic  philosophy.  Then  it 
is  that,  as  he  strolls  along  the  Sabine 
valley  or  approaches  the  Bandusian 
fountain,  the  genius  loci  casts  its  spell 
upon  him,  and  he  hears  the  reed  of 
Faunus  piping  in  the  distant  hills  and 
catches  a  glimpse  of  the  Naiad  as  she 
rises  from  the  sacred  spring. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  believe  that 
Horace  may  at  times  have  projected 
himself  into  the  past  with  sufficient 
force  of  imagination  to  bring  himself 
under  the  influence  of  the  old  faith, 
and  to  prevent  his  recognition  of  the 
Pagan  deities  from  being  open  to  any 
charge  of  insincerity.  Or,  if  we  reject 
this  hypothesis,  there  is  nothing  dis- 
creditable to  Horace  in  supposing  that 
he  merely  took  up  the  rural  traditions 
where  he  found  them,  and  used  their 
more  picturesque  and  graceful  elements 
as  materials  for  poetry.  He  must  have 
known  that  whatever  he  wrote  in  this 
manner  would  be  read  by  the  light  of 
his  avowed  scepticism,  and  that,  as 
nobody  could  be  deceived  by  it,  so 
nobody  would  suspect  him  of  hypocrisy. 
We  should  prefer  to  believe  however 
that  Horace  was  at  times  accessible  to 
the  reflection  that  there  might  be  more 
things  in  the  world  than  were  dreamed 
of  in  his  philosophy,  and  that  how- 
ever much  he  may  have  disbelieved 
in  the  intelligible  forms  of  old  re- 
ligion, he  may  not  have  been  entirely 
devoid  of  some  sympathy  with  the 
religion  of  nature. 

The  amatory  and  convivial  poems  of 
Horace  speak  for  themselves.  No- 
body ever  supposed  that  in  writing  of 
the  Lalages,  Ne«ras,  and  Glyceras, 
who  were  asked  to  the  elegant  little 
supi^er-paHies  given  by  the  E.oman 
men  of  wit  and  pleasiu-e,  Horace  was 
using  the  language  of  real  passion, 
which  he  was  probably  incapable 
of  feeling.  But  Mr.  Sellar  scouts 
the  notion  that  these  poems  were 
merely  literary  studies  addressed  to 
imaginary  personages.  He  thinks 
that  some  of  them,  like  the  scenes  and 
characters  in  the  Satires,  may  be  gene- 
ralised from  Horace's  experience  not 
to  represent  individuals. ;    But  he  be- 


lieves that  many  of   them  were  well 
known  to  the  poet,  though   his  rela- 
tions   with     them    may    have    been 
Platonic.     He  goes  further  than  this 
and  thinks  that  the  women  themselves 
**  were  refined  and  accomplished  ladies 
leading  a  somewhat  independent  but 
quite  decorous  life."    What  then  made 
them  so  difficult  of  access  %     Why  da 
we  hear  so  much  of  the  janitors,  and 
the  bolts  and  bars,  and  the  windows ) 
That  many  of  them  were  educated  and 
refined  women  and  capable  of  inspiring 
gentlemen  and  scholars  with  the  most 
ardent  affection  we  may   learn   from 
Catullus  and  Tibullus.     But  there  is 
never  any  talk  of  marriage  with  them. 
No :  it  is  pretty  clear  to  what  class 
they  belonged,  and  Horace   was   not 
the  man  to  break  his  heart  for  any 
dozen    such.      Women    in    his    eyes 
were     playthings,     and     no    sensible 
man   ought    to   give   himself    a    mo- 
ment's uneasiness  about  the  best  of 
them.     For  good  wine  he  had  a  much 
more  sincere  respect.     He  held   with 
Cratinus  that  no  water-drinker,  could 
write  poetry.     He  resembles  Addison 
again   in    both   these   particulars ;  in 
his  high  opinion  of  the  flask  and  his 
low  opinion  of  the  sex.     But  he  does 
not  resemble   him  at  all  in    another 
characteristic  which  Mr.  Sellar  thinks 
is   one   of  his  most  strongly  marked 
traits ;   his    love    of  nature    and    of 
country  life, — **  The  dream  of  Roman 
poets,"  as  Newman  says,  "from  Virgil 
to  Juvenal,  and  the  reward  of  Soman 
statesmen  from  Cincinnatus  to  Pliny." 
How   any   doubt  can    have    arisen 
with  regard  to  Horace's  sincerity  when 
he  writes  on  these  subjects  passes  our 
comprehension.     A  man  who  only  pre- 
tends to    be  a  lover  of  the  country 
never  ventures  beyond  safe  generalities 
Horace  specifies  each  tree,  streamlet, 
and  bill  with  the  touch  of  one  who 
knew    them    intimately ;    he    had   a 
Roman's  eye  for  the  picturesque,  and 
reproduces  it  in  his   verse    with    an 
easy  accuracy  which  nothing  but  long 
and  loving  contemplation  could  have 
enabled    him    to   attain.     He   differs 
from  Virgil  no  doubt  to  this  extent, — 


430 


Horace, 


and  it  is  a  very  imix)i'tant  difference- 


that  while  Horace  loved  the  beauties  of 
nature  Virgil  loved  nature  herself. 
Virgil  loved  the  country  like  Words- 
worth, Horace  like  Thomson.  There 
is  nothing  to  show  that  Horace  took 
the  same  pleasure  as  Virgil  did  in 
natural  history,  or  in  contemplating 
the  operations  of  husbandry.  But  he 
never  pretends  that  he  does.  In  the 
second  epode  he  is  not  laughing  at  such 
tastes  ;  he  seems  simply  to  be  illustrat- 
ing the  ruling  passion  exemplified 
probably  in  the  behaviour  of  some 
well-known  character  at  Rome,  who 
was  perhaps  just  then  the  subject  of 
conveisation  in  Horace's  set.  The 
sincerest  lover  of  country  life  would 
be  the  first  to  ridicule  this  affected 
enthusiasm.  The  genuine  worshipper 
of  the  rural  gods  would  be  irritated 
and  disgusted  by  this  desecration  of 
his  idol ;  he  would  feel  his  sanctuary 
polluted  and  vulgarised  by  the  intru- 
sive admiration  of  this  cockney  trades- 
man thinking  it  a  fine  thing  to  prate 
about  the  pleasures  of  the  country 
and  especially  about  country  sports. 
This  no  doubt  was  the  offence  of 
which  Alphius  had  been  guilty,  and 
which  had  been  duly  reported  to 
Horace  by  one  of  his  comrades.  And 
the  second  epode  was  the  consequence. 
To  suppose  that  it  was  really  meant 
as  a  covert  satire  upon  country  life 
seems  little  short  of  monstrous.  It 
was  exactly  the  reverse;  it  was  a 
satire  upon  the  sham  admiration  of 
it,  prompted  by  an  outrage  on  the 
real. 

But  whatever  difference  of  opinion 
may  exist  with  regard  to  Horace's 
orginality  and  sincerity  little  or  none 
is  to  be  found  on  the  question  of  his 
style.  In  his  Satires  and  Epistles  he 
did  for  Latin  vei*se  composition  what 
Addison  did  for  English  prose  com- 
position. This  is  Mr.  Sellar's  dictum. 
^*It  was  as  great  a  triumph  of  art  to 
bend  the  stately  Latin  hexameter  into 
a  flexible  instrument  for  the  use  of  his 
imisa  pedestris  as  to  have  been  the 
inventor  of  a  prose  style  equal  to 
that  of  Addison    or  Montaigne.     The 


metrical  success  which  Horace  ob- 
tained in  an  attempt  in  which  Lucilius 
absolutely  failed  is  almost  as  remark- 
able as  that  obtained  in  his  lyrical 
metres."  Here  then  at  all  events 
Horace  has  an  indisputable  claim  to 
originality.  At  the  same  time  it  must 
be  remembered  that  Horace  had 
greater  difficulties  to  contend  with  in 
bringing  down  verse  than  Addison  ex- 
perienced in  bringing  down  prose,  to 
the  level  of  "  refined  and  lively  conver- 
sation." He  could  not  get  rid  of 
metrical  conditions,  and  the  conse- 
quence is  that  he  is  more  frequently 
guilty  of  what  Conington  calls  "  the 
besetting  sin  of  the  Augustan  poets," 
that  is,  excessive  condensation,  than 
any  one  of  his  contemporaries.  Horace 
was  conscious  of  it  himself ;  Brevis  esse 
laboro,  ohscurus  fio.  In  endeavouring 
to  avoid  what  Pattison  calls  the 
"  diffuse  prodigality "  of  an  earlier 
school  Horace  fell  into  the  opposite 
extreme,  and  omitted  what  was 
necessary  to  connect  one  train  of 
thought  with  another.  This  was 
not  the  result  of  any  indifference 
to  the  thought.  The  theory,  which 
we  have  seen  advanced,  that  Horace 
in  his  Odes  was  contented  with 
writing  something  like  nonsense 
verses,  and  let  the  meaning  take  care 
of  itself  so  long  as  he  was  satisfied 
with  the  music,  is  contradicted  by  the 
fact  that  we  have  just  the  same  con- 
densation and  obscurity  in  the  Satires 
and  Epistles,  where  Horace  was 
certainly  not  aiming  at  perfection  of 
sound  or  metre.  We  find  also  pre- 
cisely the  same  fault  in  Pope,  proceed- 
ing from  the  same  cause.  Take  one 
instance  : — 

In  hearts  of  Kings  or  arms  of  Queens  who 

lay, 

How  happy  those  to  ruin,  these  betray. 

And  scores  of  such  examples  might 
be  quoted.  The  most  conspicuous 
instance  of  this  defect  in  Horace  is 
briefly  referred  to  by  Mr.  Sellar,  who 
however  offers  no  explanation  of  it. 
It  occurs  in  the  Ode  to  Fortune  (O 
Diva,   gratum    qicce  regis   Antiwniy   i. 


Horace. 


431 


35)  Horace,    addressing    the  goddess, 
says  : — 

Te  Spes  et  albo  rara  Fides  colit 
Velata  panno  nee  comitem  abnegat, 
Utcunque  mutata  potentes 
Veste  demos  in i mica  linquis. 

Now    if    Loyalty  clings  to   a  falling 
house  when  Fortune  has  deserted  it, 
how  can  Loyalty   be    said   to    follow 
Fortune  ?    If  she  accompanies  Fortune 
and  deserts  those  whom  the  goddess 
desei-ts,  how  can  she  be  called  Loyalty  ? 
We  all  know  what  Horace  means,  of 
course.     Hope   and  Loyalty  continue 
to  wait  on  Fortune  whether  she  smiles 
or  frowns ;  whichever  side  of  her  face 
she  turns  towards  their  friends,  Hope 
and   Loyalty   are   constant   to    them. 
But   the   word   linquis    implies    that 
Fortune  flies  away,  and  nee  eomitem 
abnegat  that  Loyalty  goes  with  her. 
But    there    is    no    other   passage   in 
Horace     so    unmanageable    as    this ; 
though  his  meaning  is  often  packed 
so  closely  in  such  a  very  small  parcel 
that  it  takes  some  time  to  find  it  out. 
Quintilian    says     that     there     are 
some    passages   in   Horace   which   he 
would  rather  not  try  to  explain.     But 
that  Horace  habitually  sacrificed  sense 
to  sound   is  a  proposition  which  can 
hardly  be   accepted   on   the    strength 
only  of  such  passages  as  we  have  seen 
brought  forward  in  support  of  it.     As 
however  we  do  not  profess  to  under- 
stand Latin  better  than  Horace   did 
himself,  we  shall  say  no  more  about 
it.     But  of  the  exquisite  melody  and 
perfect  finish  which    he  imparted   to 
his  lyric  metres  we  may  perhaps  speak 
with  less  presumption.     Horace's  chief 
claim  to  the  homage  of  posterity  rests 
on   his  position   as  one  of  the  great 
literary  artists  of  the  world.     Here  he 
stands  alone ;   nobody   else   has   been 
able  to  play  upon  that  instrument ;  as 
Munro  has  well  said,  the  secret  of  its 
music  was  lost  with  its  inventor. 

Xon    bene   conveninnt  nee    in   una  sede 

morantur 
Majestas  et  amor, 

says  Ovid  ;  and  these  two  qualities,  so 


rarely  united,  Horace  has  combined  in 
perfection.  The  Alcaic  Ode  with  its 
combination  of  strength  and  beauty  is 
Horace,  and  Horace  is  the  Alcaic  Ode. 
The  rise  and  fall  of  the  metre,  cul- 
minating in  the  third  line  on  which 
the  whole  stanza  seems  as  it  were 
balanced  or  supported,  and  then  falling 
away  in  the  more  rapid  and  dactylic, 
but  less  emphatic  movement  of  the 
fourth,  is  one  of  the  greatest  tri- 
umphs of  the  metrical  art  which  poetry 
has  produced.  The  Sapphic  is  equally 
his  own  property,  and  occasionally 
equals  the  Alcaic  in  the  mellowness 
of  its  tones ;  but  its  general  efi'ect  is 
that  of  liveliness  and  vivacity,  though 
it  sometimes  rises  to  the  majestic  also ; 
it  is  to  the  Alcaic  what  the  fife  is 
to  the  flute.  Horace  broke  them  both 
as  he  was  laid  on  the  Esquiline  Hill 
beside  the  bones  of  his  patron,  and 
no  man  was  heir  to  that  matchless 
gift,  the  like  of  which  only  appears 
at  rare  intervals  in  the  history  of 
literature. 

Objection  has  been  taken  to  the 
designation  of  Queen  Anne's  and  the 
early  Georgian  epoch  as  the  Augustan 
age  of  England.  But  in  one  respect 
it  is  apt  enough.  What  Pope  was  to 
the  poets  of  the  sixteenth  and  seven- 
teenth centuries,  that  were  Horace 
and  Virgil  to  the  poets  of  the  Repub- 
lic. If  in  many  respects, — in  the 
quality  of  his  satire,  in  his  good  nature 
and  moderation  —  Horace  resembled 
Addison,  in  his  metrical  capacity  and 
in  his  methods  also  he  resembled  Pope. 
Hear  Thackeray  again.  "  He  (Pope) 
polished,  he  refined,  he  thought;  he 
took  thoughts  from  other  works  to 
adorn  and  complete  his  own  ;  borrow- 
ing an  idea  or  a  cadence  from  another 
poet  as  he  would  a  figure  or  a  simile 
from  a  flower  or  a  river  or  any  object 
which  struck  him  in  his  walk  or  con- 
templation of  nature."  Are  we  read- 
ing of  the  English  or  the  Roman 
poet,  of  the  reign  of  Augustus  or  the 
reign  of  Anne?  Is  not  this  Horace 
himself,  the  very  man  ? 

Another  point  of  resemblance  be- 


432 


Horace. 


tween  the  two  periods  is  the  demand 
which  arose  in  both  for  the  political 
support  of  literature.  As  Hoi-ace  and 
Virgil  were  called  upon  to  uphold 
the  new  government  at  Home,  so 
Addison  and  Steele  were  called 
upon  to  uphold  the  new  govern- 
ment in  England.  We  cannot 
indeed  compare  Tlie  Campaign  or  The 
Freeholder  with  the  Quce  cura  Patrum 
or  Divia  orte  bonis,  which  last  reminds 
us  more  of  Shakespeare's  compliment 
to  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  but  both  had 
their  origin  in  similar  political  exi- 
gencies, and  in  each  case  alike  the 
champions  of  the  existing  order  were 
liberally  rewarded. 

But  besides  the  imperishable  speci- 
mens of  literary  art  which  he  has  left 
behind  him,  Horace  has  other  claims 
on  our  respect  which  many  readers 
may  think  of  equal  value.  A  man 
may  be  a  great  poet  without  being  a 
man  of  letters,  as  he  may  certainl}'  be 
a  man  of  letters  without  being  a  great 
poet.  Horace  was  both.  He  was 
deeply  read  in  all  the  literature  then 
extant ;  and  next  to  the  woods  and 
the  hills  which  he  loved  so  well,  his 
daily  delight  was  in  his  library.  The 
picture  which  he  draws  of  himself  in 
his  country  home  affords  us  a  delight- 
ful glimpse  of  such  literary  leisure  as 
is  only  possible  in  the  golden  days  of 
good  Haroun  Alraschid.  Horace  goes 
to  bed  and  gets  up  when  he  likes ; 
there  is  no  one  to  drag  him  down  to 
the  law  courts  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  to  remind  him  of  any  im- 
portant engagement  with  his  brother 
scribes,  to  solicit  his  interest  with 
Maecenas,  or  to  tease  him  about  public 
affairs  and  the  latest  news  from  abroad. 
He  can  bury  himself  in  bis  Greek 
authors,  or  ramble  through  the  woody 
glens  which  lay  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
IJstica,  without  a  thought  of  business 
or  a  feeling  that  he  ought  to  be  other- 
wise employed.  In  the  evening  he 
returns  to  his  own  fireside,  to  his 
dinner  of  beans  and  bacon  and  the 
company  of  his  country  neighbours, 
who  were  men  of  education  and  intel- 


ligence, competent  to  bear  their  part 
in  the  conversation  of  which  he  was  so 
fond,  concerning  the  good  of  life,  the 
value  of  riches,  and  the  motives  of 
friendship.  The  entertainment,  we 
may  presume,  was  not  always  on  so 
very  moderate  a  scale.  The  dinner 
table  of  Ofellus  (Satire  ii  2)  was  prob- 
ably more  like  Horace's  when  he  en- 
tertained a  friend  from  town,  or  a 
country  acquaintance  who  had  dropped 
in  for  shelter  from  the  rain.  The  olus 
and  pema,  corresponding  perhaps  to 
our  ham  and  peas,  or  else  the  /aha 
Pythagora  and  the  uncta  oluscula  lardo 
seem  to  have  been  standing  dishes  at 
the  tables  of  the  yeoman  and  smaller 
gentry  of  Horace's  time  when  they 
were  alone  and  on  ordinary  days. 
But  on  festive  occasions  a  joint  of 
lamb  and  a  roast  fowl  could  be  added 
to  it,  with  a  dessert  of  nuts,  grapes, 
and  figs,  at  which  they  sat  pretty 
late  over  their  wine.  How  modem  it 
all  seems  !  Pope  had  no  difficulty  in 
turning  the  menu  of  Ofellus  into  a  din- 
ner given  by  himself  at  Twickenham, 
with  hardly  the  alteration  of  a  word. 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine  any  life 
more  delightful  than  was  led  by  this 
accomplished  man  for  nearly  thirty 
years  ;  in  easy  circumstances,  with  all 
that  fame  could  give,  admitted  to  the 
closest  intimacy  with  the  high-bom 
and  highly  cultivated  society  which 
formed  the  Court  of  Augustus,  and 
which  has  been  equalled  only  at  a  few 
choice  epochs  of  the  world's  history; 
free  to  employ  himself  as  he  pleased, 
to  enjoy  all  the  luxui'ies,  and  all  the 
intellectual  intercourse  of  a  great 
capital,  or  to  retire,  as  he  chose,  to 
his  beautiful  rui-al  home  and  his  well- 
stocked  bookshelves — ducere  soUicUce 
jucunda  ohlivia  vitce.  It  is  prob- 
able that  at  one  time  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  sportsman,  and  varied  his 
researches  into  what  was  even  then 
called  ancient  literature,  with  the 
occasional  pursuit  of  stag,  hare,  or 
boar.  He  was  unmarried,  it  is  true ; 
but  if  he  lacked  the  happiness  which 
springs  from  the  affections  he  probably 


HoTdce. 


433 


did  not  miss  it,  and  he  escaped  its  con- 
comitant anxieties.  Yet  with  every- 
thing else  to  cheer  him,  with  every  ele- 
gant enjoyment  at  his  command,  with 
no  taste  ungratified  and  no  ambition 
disappointed,  we  still  see  that  Horace 
was  subject  to  that  undefinable  melan- 
choly which  the  sceptical  philosophy 
grafted  on  to  the  poetical  temperament 
can  hardly  fail  to  engender.  In  the 
linquenda  tellus,  and  the  cetemum 
exilium  he  is  not  merely  converting  to 
poetical  uses  feelings  which  are  com- 
mon to  mankind  in  all  ages  of  the 
world.  The  same  reflection  recurs  too 
often  to  allow  of  our  doubting  that  it 
was  habitual,  and  that  it  coloured  all 
his  views  of  life.  The  frequency  of 
8uicide  among  the  ancients  had  its 
origin  in  an  intensified  form  of  this 
despondency.  Horace  doubtless  did 
not  experience  it  in  its  severest  shape  ; 
he  was  too  well  fitted  by  nature  for 
the  enjoyment  of  life  and  society  to 
give  way  to  any  deep  or  permanent 
depression.  But  it  forced  its  way  on 
his  mind  at  intervals,  and  is  a  haunt- 
ing presence  in  many  of  his  writings 
when  there  is  no  open  expression  of 
it.  As  has  been  said  of  great  wealth 
jso  we  may  say  of  such  a  life  as  Horace's, 
that  it  was  calculated  to  make  a  death- 
bed very  painful.  Modern  scepticism 
for  the  most  part  contents  itself  with 
asserting  that  we  have  no  evidence  to 
justify  belief  in  a  future  state,  but 
each  man  may  think  what  he  likes 
about  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Horace  was  scarcely  at  liberty  to  do 
this.  He  must  have  looked  on  death 
as  annihilation.  The  question  may  be 
asked  whether  if  he  had  believed  in  a 
future  state  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments, he  would  have  been  any  the 


happier.  It  is  a  question  beyond  the 
scope  of  this  paper.  But  Newman 
has  a  passage  in  the  Office  and  Work  of 
Universities  not  altogether  remote  from 
it,  and  so  singularly  Applicable  to  the 
life  of  Horace  that  we  cannot  do  better 
than  close  our  own  remarks  with  one 
of  the  most  charming  specimens  even  of 
Newman's  style  that  can  be  found : — 

Easy  circumstances,  books,  friends,  liter- 
ary conhections,  the  fine  arts,  presents 
from  abroad,  foreign  correspondents,  hand- 
some appointments,  elegant  simplicity, 
gravel  walks,  lawns,  flower-beds,  trees  and 
shrubberies,  summer-houses,  strawberry- 
beds,  a  greenhouse,  a  wall  for  peaches, 
hoc  erat  in  votis  ; — nothing  out  of  the  way, 
no  hot-houses,  graperies,  pineries — Persi- 
C08  odi,  puei\  apparatus — no  mansions,  no 
parks,  no  deer,  no  preserves ;  these  things 
are  not  worth  the  cost,  they  involve  the 
bother  of  dependants,  they  interfere  with 
enjoyment.  One  or  two  faithful  servants, 
who  last  on  as  the  trees  do,  and  cannot 
change  their  place  ; — the  ancients  had 
slaves,  a  sort  of  dumb  waiter,  and  the  real 
article ;  alas  !  they  are  impossible  now. 
We  must  have  no  one  with  claims  upon 
us,  or  with  rights ;  no  incumbrances ;  no 
wife  and  children ;  they  would  hurt  our 
dignity.  We  must  have  acquaintances 
within  reach,  yet  not  in  the  way ;  ready, 
not  troublesome  or  intrusive.  We  must 
have  something  of  name,  or  of  rank,  or  of 
ancestry,  or  of  past  official  life,  to  raise  us 
from  thef  dead  level  of  mankind,  to  afford 
food  for  the  imagination  of  our  neighbours. 

...  To  a  lite  such  as  this  a  man  is  more 
attached  the  longer  he  lives ;  and  he  would 
be  more  and  more  happy  in  it  too,  were 
it  not  for  the  memento  within  him,  that 
books  and  gardens  do  not  make  a  man 
immortal ;  that  though  they  do  not  leave 
him,  he  at  least  must  leave  them,  all  but 
"the  hateful  cypresses,"  and  must  go  where 
the  only  book  is  the  book  of  doom^  and 
the  only  garden  the  Paradise  of  the  Just. 


No.  390. — VOL.  Lxv. 


P   F 


434 


MRS.    DRIFFIELD. 


A   SKETCH. 


Our  house  stands  in  a  quiet,  almost 
subui'ban  side  street,  and  it  has  no 
area  -  entrance  ;  consequently  when 
Mrs.  Driffield  calls  this  is  what  hap- 
pens. 

First,  the  garden-gate  gives  a  sad, 
long  shriek ;  it  never  shrieks  for  me 
or  my  ordinary  guests,  so  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Driffield  bears  heavily  upon  it, 
as  Goethe  said  his  countrymen  did  on 
life.  Then  there  comes  an  undecided 
pattering  about  the  doorstep,  as  if 
the  visitor  could  not  determine  whether 
she  were  worthy  to  use  the  scraper  or 
not.  Presently  this  too  ceases,  and 
just  as  you  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  a  false  alarm  or  a  wander- 
ing advertisement  there  is  a  single 
helpless  "  flop  "  of  the  knocker,  which 
means  Mrs.  Driffield,  and  nothing  else 
in  the  world.  She  never  disappoints  you, 
never  fails  to  be  Mrs.  Driffield,  after 
the  process  of  the  gate-screaming, 
the  step-pattering,  the  knortker-dab- 
bing  is  gone  through  ;  the  whole  thing 
takes  from  seven  to  ten  minutes, 
according  to  fine  or  wet  weather,  and 
you  are  glad  when  you  know  the 
worst. 

"Mrs.  Driffield  has  called  and 
would  like  to  see  you,  ma* am." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  come  directly  ; 
ask  her  to  sit  down  in  the  hall.  Ellen  " 
(this  confidentially  to  the  maid),  "  is  it 
just  a  usual,  indefinite  visit,  or  has  she 
something  to  sell  1 " 

"  I  am  not  sure,  ma'am,  but  I'm 
afraid  she  has  something  under  her 
shawl." 

This  is  the  worst  kind  of  visit ! 

It  is  no  good  sitting  down  to  finish 
a  note  or  get  to  the  end  of  a  chapter 
after  this.  The  shadow  of  Mrs. 
Driffield  lies  upon  me,  the  burden  of 


the  mystery  which  she  carries  under 
her  shawl. 

As  I  look  longingly  at  my  book, 
her  reproachful  single  cough  resounds 
from  the  hall ;  I  know  that  I  must  go 
down  and  buy  "  it,"  whether  it  be  her 
own  crochet,  or  her  carpenter-son's 
fretwork,  or  the  shell  ornaments  from 
Venice  which  her  sailor-son  consigned 
to  her  care  before  drowning,  or  the 
"  shot  voilet  parasole "  which  her 
youngest  daughter's  mistress  at  Haver- 
stock  Hill  gave  her  as  good  as  new, 
"The  summer  the  family  went  to 
Westgate-on-Sea,  which  is  not  suitable, 
ma'am,  for  my  girl,  and  more  in  your 
line,  I  venture  to  remark,  as  can 
afford  to  dress  handsome." 

Buying  old  clothes  being  not  really  in 
my  line  at  all,  I  have  stood  out  against 
the  **  shot  voilet "  so  far,  deftly  turn- 
ing the  conversation  in  every  other 
direction  so  soon  as  it  crops  up ;  but 
nevertheless  I  feel  that  sleight  of 
tongue  will  not  avail  me  for  ever,  and 
sooner  or  later  I  shall  be  caught  in 
the  toils  of  this  violet  web. 

"  I  just  called  in,  ma'am,  to  ask 
how  you  was,  not  having  seen  you 
about  lately  and  the  weather  so 
treacherous,  and  I  ventured  to  bring 
you  this  to  look  at." 

Then  I  know  my  doom  is  sealed. 

Mrs.  Driffield  is  a  small  person, 
with  a  large  face,  like  the  face  of  a  sad, 
old,  white  horse.  She  dresses  in 
very  deep  mourning,  save  for  a  crim- 
son paper  rose  which  flames  in  the 
forehead  of  her  crape  bonnet ;  she  has 
a  pair  of  black  suede  gloves  through 
which  her  fingers,  crippled  with  rheu- 
matism, poke  ostentatiously.  She  can 
do  rough  needlework  and  charing 
with  these  crooked  hands,  but  their 


Mrs,  Driffield. 


435 


knobs  and  distortions  are  a   source  of 
unalloyed  pride  to  her. 

*•  Dr.  Evans,  at  the  'Spensary,  he's 
said  to  me  many  a  time,  *Mrs.  Driffield,' 
he  says,  *  it's  a  wonder  to  me  how  you 
holds  anything  at  all,  and  it's  as  good 
as  a  play  to  see  you  pick  up  a  six- 
pence.' But  I  always  answers  him  that 
the  wind  is  tempered,  ma'am,  which  it 
need  be  indeed  to  me,  for  the  dear  good 
man's  cut  off  with  this  influenzy,  and 
never  another  sixpence  shall  I  ever 
have  off  him.  Which  brings  me  back 
to  what  I  was  saying,  and  what  I  was 
a-going  to  show  you." 

"  Mrs.  Driffield,"  I  say  severely, 
"you  oughtn't  to  be  reduced  to  this 
selling,  which  is  only  another  form  of 
begging.  You  are  the  mother  of 
eleven  children,  and  surely  they  ought 
to  be  able  to  help  you ;  if  not,  you 
know,  you  ought  to  make  up  your 
mind  to  go  into  the  House." 

"Thirteen,  dear,  thirteen,"  corrects 
my  visitor — "  thirteen  of  my  own, 
buried  and  unburied,  not  to  speak  of 
other  people's ! "  And  I  recollect  myself 
to  accredit  her  with  her  lawful  (though 
unattractive)  baker's  dozen,  and  to 
recall  that  in  her  day  she  has  been 
a  Gamp  of  some  celebrity,  a  fact 
which  she  somehow  always  classes 
with  her  own  claims  as  a  mother  in 
Israel. 

"  That's  where  it  is,  ma'am,"  she 
now  goes  off  triumphantly ;  "  if  Drif- 
field and  me  hadn't  brought  up  thirteen 
and  buried  five  of  them  respectably " 
[she  seemed  to  have  a  notion  that  the 
grave  was  as  good  a  start  as  any 
other]  **on  two-and-twenty  shillings  a 
week  I  wouldn't  have  said  nothink ; 
but  seeing  that  we  have,  and  him  took 
off  at  sixty-four  with  nothing  more 
than  a  poisoned  finger,  I  do  feel  it 
hard  that  we  shouldn't  get  no  better 
reward  than  them  as  has  spendthrifted 
and  worse  all  their  days." 

Her  reasoning  is  somewhat  involved, 
but  I  recognise  the  truth  of  her  argu- 
ment. Is  the  House  to  be  the  end 
of  thrifty  and  unthrifty  alike,  of  the 
toiling  parents  of  thirteen  as  well  as 


of  the  out-at-elbows  vagabond  whose 
family  are  "  on  the  parish  "  all  their 
lives,  more  or  less  ? 

"Doesn't  your  clergyman  help  you  ?" 
I  say,  feebly  fencing  against  the  "  shot 
voilet  parasole,"  which  I  now  see  plainly 
protruding  from  her  scanty  skirts. 

"  Not  he,  dear,  not  he  !  You  see  I 
have  always  gone  to  St.  Augustine's, 
and  dressed  genteel  in  spite  of  the 
pinch  at  home,  and  St.  Augustine's  is 
what  you  may  call  a  very  elegant 
church.  To  be  sure,  I  Jtave  heard 
them  pray  for  the  fruits  of  the  earth 
in  duo  season  ;  but  I  don't  suppose 
there's  one  of  the  gentlemen  there  as 
don't  sit  down  to  his  forced  straw- 
berries and  his  early  peas  every  day 
to  his  luncheon  or  his  meat-tea. 
Everything's  done  very  high  there,  I 
assure  you,  and  nothink  much  given 
away,  unless  it  be  charity  ordinations 
and  such  like,  which  I  don't  care 
about  myself." 

What  sort  of  wholesale  means  of 
grace  "charity  ordinations"  comprise 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  determine,  but  from 
Mrs.  Driffield's  sniff  I  conclude  that 
they  are  obsolete  or  insufficient. 

"  Since  Elisha  went,  I've  not  been 
so  regular  at  church  as  I  might  ha' 
been,  I  confes<»,"  Mrs.  Driffield  goes  on 
candidly;  "  but  p'rhaps  I've  done  more 
Bible  readin'  at  home,"  and  she  looks 
at  me  with  her  long,  old  face  slightly 
tilted  on  one  side,  to  see  if  I  am  going 
to  dispute  this  hypothesis. 

"  You  could  not  do  better,"  I  remark 
judicially. 

"It's  a  wonderful  book,  ma'am : 
something  for  everybody  in  it,  and 
something  for  every  time.  There's 
sad  chapters  to  take  you  down  a  bit 
when  you  feel  cheerful,  and  merry 
chapters  to  pick  you  up  when  you  feel 
sad.  My  favourite  chapter  of  all, 
dear,  is  in  St.  Luke ;  many  a  laugh 
I've  had  over  that  christening." 

"  What  chapter  is  that,  Mrs. 
Driffield?" 

"  Why,  the  christening  at  Zacha- 
rias's,  dear,  when  he  took  'em  all  in 
so  about  the  baby's  name  !     They  all 

F  F  2 


436 


Mrs.  Driffield, 


thought  as  he  was  to  be  called  after 
the  grandpa*,  an'  then  Zacharias  he 
ups  and  says,  *  His  name  is  John,'  and 
John  it  had  to  be,  sure  enough !  That 
Zacharias  must  'a  been  a  merry  man  ; 
any  way,  he's  given  me  many  a  good 
laugh  when  I've  been  feeling  a  bit 
down, — after  Elisha  went  more  per- 
tiklery." 

I  think  of  our  careful,  studious 
vicar  who  begs  we  will  give  our  poor 
neighbours  **  sound  Church  principles  " 
to  work  upon,  and  I  withhold  all  com- 
ment from  this  new  reading  of  the  first 
chapter  of  St.  Luke. 

The  "  Elisha "  to  whom  Mrs.  Drif- 
field constantly  refers  is  a  poor  ne'er- 
do-well  daughter,  who,  after  living 
with  her  mother  a  few  months  of  her 
widowhood,  drifted  into  the  surf  of 
London  street-life  and  had  not  re- 
emerged.  Her  real  name  I  presently 
discovered  to  be  Alicia.  "A  fancy 
name,"  the  mother  explained,  "came 
to  me,  sudden-like,  while  I  was  pickin' 
a  few  winkles  the  night  before  she 
was  born  ;  seems  almost  as  if  it  was  a 
judgment  that  she  should  be  the  one 
to  go  wrong ;  but,  after  all,  one  out 
of  thirteen  don't  seem  much,  do  it, 
dear,  when  all's  said  and  done  ?  After 
she  left  me,  I  took  an'  sanctified  the 
name,  so  to  speak,  and  calls  it  Elisha. 
Yes,  I  expects  her-  to  come  back  some 
day ;  I'm  sure  of  it,  and  that's  why  I 
stops  on  at  the  old  place,  that  she  may 
know  where  to  come  to.  She  always 
had  high  notions,  poor  girl,  through 
bein'  deceived  by  a  butler  at  her  first 
place,  so  I  try  to  keep  out  of  the 
House  on  her  account ;  not  to  give 
her  a  shock,  like,  if  she  came  back 
sudden.  An'  if  you  could  find  a  use 
for  this,  ma'am"  (suddenly  unsheathing 
her  weapon) — 

I  temporise,  for  the  time  being,  with 
a  shilling. 

One  evening,  about  six  o'clock,  "  by 
the  pricking  of  my  thumb  "  and  other 
signs,  I  know  that  Mrs.  Driffield  has 
arrived.  Did  I  mention  that  she  al- 
ways chooses  twilight  for  her  visits, 
and  prefers  miserable  weather,  when 


she  enters  with  a  gust  of  rain  and 
stands  in  a  puddle  of  her  own  dripping  1 
To-night  her  hands  are  empty  and  un- 
gloved, her  flaccid  face  has  a  gleam  of 
excitement  playing  on  its  empty  sur- 
face, her  head  jerks  restlessly  to  and 
fro.  ^^  Elisha  has  come  back,  ma'am, 
an'  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  into 
the  House !  " 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Driffield,  this  is  news  ! 
But  why  should  you  go  into  the  House 
now  that  your  daughter  is  back? 
Won't  she  live  with  you,  and  help 
you?" 

"  You  see,  ma'am,  she  have  brought 
back  a  young  man, — a  sailor,  I  think, 
leastways  a  fishmonger — that  is  willin' 
to  marry  her  if  she'd  got  but  a  few 
bits  o'  things  to  start  with.  An'  I 
thought  I'd  better  let  her  have  my 
bits  o'  sticks  and  go  into  the  House. 
If  I  could  see  Elisha  respectably  joined 
together  in  holy  matrimony,  it  wouldn't 
much  matter  what  became  o'  me  after- 
wards, would  it,  dear  ?  And  as  you 
was  the  only  friend  I  had,  I  thought 
I'd  come  an'  tell  you,  an'  then  you'd 
know  why  I  didn't  call  again.  I'm 
sure  I  return  you  many  thanks  for  all 
your  kindness,  and  every  one  in  this 
house,  small  and  great." 

"  Mrs.  Driffield,"  I  say  impulsively, 
with  a  choking  somehow  in  my  throat, 
**  you  used  to  have  a  pretty  purple 
parasol.  If  you  would  like  to  sell  it,  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  give  you  half-a- 
crown  for  it ;  you  may  want  a  little 
money  to  settle  your  affairs  or  take 
with  you." 

*' Thank  you,  dear,"  says  Mrs. 
Driffield,  shaking  her  head  from  side 
to  side,  "thank  you,  but  that's  gone 
too  !  I  did  think  I  should  like  you 
to  have  had  that, — shot  voilet  it  were, 
with  old  gold  underneath — but  I  gave 
it  over,  with  every  think  else,  to 
Elisha,  and  she  just  hollered  out  with 
pleasure  when  she  saw  it,  and  put  it  up 
over  her  head  in  my  back  parlour,  for 
all  the  world  like  a  baby.  I  told  her 
there  was  nothing  so  unlucky  as  puttin' 
up  an  umberella  indoors ;  but  she  says 
her  luck's  turned,  and  she  don't  care 


Mrs,  Driffield. 


437 


a  snap  now  that  she  has  a  home  of  her 
own.  So  once  more  thanking  you, 
dear,  I  must  be  going.*' 

Passing  by  chance  next  day  through 
the  street  where  Mrs.  Driffield  had 
struggled  so  long  alone,  I  saw  a  hand- 
truck  at  her  door,  and  a  villainous- 
looking  fellow, — who  certainly  was  not 
a  sailor,  and  as  for  a  fishmonger,  I 
doubt  if  he  were  so  honest  a  man — 
loading  it  with  her  "bits  o'  sticks." 


Elisha  came  bawling  down  the  steps, 
hurling  a  feather-bed  before  her,  which 
was  piled  on  the  barrow,  and  then  the 
cavalcade  started.  As  they  turned 
the  corner  a  drizzle  of  rain  was  be- 
ginning, and  Elisha  unfurled  a  purple 
parasol  over  the  load.  I  could  only 
hope  they  were  "respectably  joined 
together,"  as  Mrs.  Driffield  quoted  it, 
and  had  not  got  the  furniture  on  false 
pretences. 


438 


THE    FOOTSTEP    OF    DEATH. 


Godliness  is  great  riches  if  a  man  be 
content  with  what  he  hath. 

These  words  invariably  carry  me 
back  in  the  spirit  to  a  certain  avenue 
of  akesham  trees  I  knew  in  India; 
an  avenue  six  miles  long,  leading 
through  barren  sandy  levels  to  the 
river  which  divided  civilisation  from 
the  frontier  wilds ;  an  avenue  like 
the  aisle  of  a  great  cathedral  with 
tall  straight  trunks  for  columns,  and 
ribbed  branches  sweeping  up  into  a 
vaulted  roof  set  with  starry  glints  of 
sunshine  among  the  green  fretwork 
of  the  leaves.  Many  a  time  as  I 
walked  my  horse  over  its  chequered 
pavement  of  shade  and  shine  I  have 
looked  out  sideways  on  the  yellow 
glare  of  noon  beyond  in  grateful  re- 
membrance of  the  man  who, — Heaven 
knows  when  ! — planted  this  refuge  for 
unborn  generations  of  travellers.  Not 
a  bad  monument  to  leave  behind  one 
among  forgetful  humanity. 

The  avenue  itself,  for  all  its  con- 
tenting shade,  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  text  which  brings  it  to  memory; 
that  co-ordination  being  due  to  an  old 
faheer  who  sate  at  the  river  end, 
where,  without  even  a  warning  break, 
the  aisle  ended  in  a  dazzling  glare  of 
sand-bank.  This  sudden  change  no 
doubt  accounted  for  the  fact  that  on 
emerging  from  the  shade  I  always 
seemed  to  see  a  faint,  half-hearted 
mirage  of  the  still  unseen  river  be- 
yond. An  elusive  mirage,  distinct  in 
the  first  surprise  of  its  discovery, 
vanishing  when  the  attention  sought 
for  it.  Altogether  a  disturbing  phe- 
nomenon, refusing  to  be  verified  ;  for 
the  only  man  who  could  have  spoken 
positively  on  the  subject  was  the  old 
fakeer,  and  he  was  stone-blind.  His 
face  gave  evidence  of  the  cause  in  the 
curious    puffiness    and    want    of    ex- 


pression which  confluent  small-pox 
often  leaves  behind  it.  In  this  case  it 
had  played  a  sorrier  jest  with  the 
human  face  divine  than  usual,  bv 
placing  a  flat  bloated  mask  wearing  a 
perpetual  smirk  of  content  on  the  top 
of  a  mere  anatomy  of  a  body.  The 
result  was  odd.  For  the  rest  a  very 
ordinary  faheer ,  cleaner  than  most  by 
reason  of  the  reed  broom  at  his  side, 
which  proclaimed  him  a  member  of 
the  sweeper,  or  lowest,  caste ;  in 
other  words,  one  of  those  who  at  least 
gain  from  their  degradation  the  possi- 
bility of  living  cleanly  without  the  aid 
of  others.  There  are  many  striking 
points  about  our  Indian  Empire  ;  none 
perhaps  more  so,  and  yet  less  con- 
sidered, than  the  disabilities  which 
caste  brings  in  its  train ;  the  im- 
possibility, for  instance,  of  having 
your  floor  swept  unless  Providence 
provides  a  man  made  on  purpose.  My 
faheer,  however,  was  of  those  to  whom 
cleanliness  and  not  godliness  is  the 
reason  of  existence. 

That  was  why  his  appeal  for  alms, 
while  it  took  a  religious  turn  as  was 
necessary,  displayed  also  a  truly  catho- 
lic toleration.  It  consisted  of  a  single 
monotonous  cry :  "In  the  name  of 
your  own  Saint,  " — or,  as  it  might  be 
translated,  "In  the  name  of  your 
own  God."  It  thrilled  me  oddly  every 
time  I  heard  it  by  its  contented  ac- 
quiescence in  the  fact  that  the  scaven- 
ger's god  was  not  a  name  wherewith 
to  conjure  charity.  What  then  %  The 
passer-by  could  give  in  the  name  of 
his  particular  deity  and  let  the  minor 
prophets  go. 

The  plan  seemed  successful,  for  the 
wooden  bowl,  placed  within  the  clean- 
swept  ring,  bordered  by  its  edging  of 
dust  or  mud,  wherein  he  sate  winter 
and  summer,  was  never  empty,  and  his 


The  Footstep  of  Death, 


489 


cry,  if  monotonous,  was  cheerful.  Not 
ten  yards  from  his  station  beneath  the 
last  tree,  the  road  ended  in  a  deep 
cutting,  through  which  a  low-level 
bed  of  water  flowed  to  irrigate  a  basin 
of  alluvial  land  to  the  south ;  but  a 
track,  made  passable  for  carts  by  tiger- 
grass  laid  athwart  the  yielding  sand, 
skirted  the  cut  to  reach  a  ford  higher 
up.  A  stiff  bit  for  the  straining 
bullocks,  so  all  save  the  drivers  took 
the  short  cut  by  the  plank  serving  as 
a  footbridge.  It  served  also  as  a 
warning  to  the  blind  fakeevy  without 
which  many  a  possible  contributor  to 
the  bowl  might  have  passed  unheard 
and  unsolicited  over  the  soft  sand.  As 
it  was,  the  first  creak  of  the  plank 
provoked  his  cry. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  I  had 
passed  the  old  man  many  times  in  my 
frequent  journey ings  across  the  river 
that  I  noticed  two  peculiarities  in  his 
method.  He  never  begged  of  me  or 
any  other  European  who  chanced  that 
way,  nor  of  those  coming  from  the 
city  to  the  river.  The  latter  might 
be  partly  set  down  to  the  fact  that 
from  his  position  he  could  not  hear 
their  footsteps  on  the  bridge  till  after 
they  had  passed  ;  but  the  former 
seemed  unaccountable ;  and  one  day 
when  the  red-funnelled  steam  ferry- 
boat, which  set  its  surroundings  so 
utterly  at  defiance,  was  late,  I  ques- 
tioned him  on  the  subject. 

*'  You  lose  custom,  surely,  by  seek- 
ing the  shade?"  I  began.  "If  you 
were  at  the  other  side  of  the  cut  you 
would  catch  those  who  come  from  the 
city.     They  are  the  richest." 

As  he  turned  his  closed  eyes  to- 
wards me  with  a  grave  obeisance  which 
did  not  match  the  jaunty  content  of 
his  mask,  he  looked, — sitting  in  the 
centre  of  his  swept  circle — ludicrously 
like  one  of  those  penwipers  young 
ladies  make  for  charity  bazjiars. 

**The  Presence  mistakes,"  he  re- 
[)li»'d.  "  Those  who  come  from  the  town 
have  (impty  wallets.  'Tis  those  who 
come  from  the  wilderness  who  give." 

*'  But  you  never  beg  of  me,  whether 
I  go  or  come.     Why  is  that  ?  " 


"  I  take  no  money,  Huzoor ;  it  is  of 
no  use  to  me.  The  Sahibs  carry  no 
food  with  them  ;  not  even  tobacco, 
only  cheroots." 

The  evident  regret  in  the  latter  half 
of  his  sentence  amused  me.  "  'Tis  you 
who  mistake,  yaA;eer-^'i,"  I  replied,  tak- 
ing out  my  pouch.  "  I  am  of  those 
who  smoke  pipes.  And  now  tell  me 
why  you  refuse  money ;  most  of  your 
kind  are  not  so  self-denying." 

"That  is  easy  to  explain.  Some 
cannot  eat  what  is  given  ;  with  me  it 
is  the  other  way.  As  my  lord  knows, 
we  dust-like  ones  eat  most  things  your 
God  has  made.  But  we  cannot  eat 
money,  perhaps  because  He  did  not 
make  it, — so  the  padres  say." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  learned  ;  but  you  can 
always  buy." 

"  Begging  is  easier.  See  !  my  bowl 
is  full,  and  the  munificent  offering  of 
the  Presence  is  enough  for  two  pipes. 
What  more  do  I  want  ?  *' 

Viewed  from  bis  standpoint  the 
question  was  a  hard  one  to  answer. 
The  sun  warmed  him,  the  leaves  shel- 
tered him,  the  passers-by  nourished 
him,  all  apparently  to  his  utmost 
satisfaction.  I  felt  instinctively  that 
the  state  of  bis  mind  was  the  only 
refuge  for  the  upholders  of  civilisation, 
and  a  high  standard  of  comfort.  So  I 
asked  him  what  he  thought  about  all 
day  long.  His  reply  brought  total 
eclipse  to  all  my  lights. 

"  Huzoor  /  "  he  said  gravely,  "  I 
meditate  on  the  Beauty  of  Holiness." 

It  was  then  that  the  text  already 
quoted  became  indissolubly  mixed  up 
with  the  spreading  shesham  branches, 
the  glare  beyond,  and  that  life-sized 
penwiper  in  the  foreground.  I  whistled 
the  refrain  of  a  music-hall  song  and 
pretended  to  light  my  pipe.  "  How 
long  have  you  been  here?"  I  asked, 
aft.er  a  time,  during  which  he  sat  still 
as  a  graven  image  with  his  closed  eyes 
towards  the  uncertain  mirage  of  the 
river. 

"  'Tis  nigh  on  thirty  years,  my  lord, 
since  I  have  been  waiting." 

"  Waiting  for  what  ?  " 

*'  For  the  Footstepof  Death,— hark  I " 


440 


The  FooUtep  of  Death. 


he  paused  suddenly,  and  a  tremor 
came  to  his  closed  eyelids  as  he  gave 
the  cry  :  "In  the  name  of  your  God  I*' 
The  next  instant  a  faint  creak  told 
me  that  the  first  passenger  from  the 
newly  arrived  ferry-boat  had  set  foot 
on  the  bridge.  "You  have  quick  ears, 
fakeer-ji,^^  I  remarked. 

"  I  live  on  footsteps,  my  lord." 
"  And  when  the  Footstep  of  Death 
comes   you    will   die   of    one,   I    pre- 
sume ! " 

He  turned  his  face  towards  me 
quickly  ;  it  gave  me  quite  a  shock  to 
find  a  pair  of  clear,  light-brown  eyes 
looking  at,  or  rather  beyond,  me.  From 
his  constantly  closed  lids  I  had  im- 
agined that, — as  is  so  often  the  case 
in  small-pox — the  organs  of  sight  were 
hopelessly  diseased  or  altogether  de- 
stroyed ;  indeed,  I  had  been  grateful 
for  the  concealment  of  a  defect  out  of 
which  many  beggars  would  have  made 
capital.  But  these  eyes  were  apparently 
as  perfect  as  my  own,  and  extraordi- 
narily clear  and  bright ;  so  clear  that 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  they  did  not  even 
hold  a  shadow  of  the  world  around 
them.  The  surprise  made  me  forget 
my  first  question  in  another. 

"  Huzoor  !  "  he  replied,  "  I  am  quite 
blind.  The  Light  came  from  the  sky 
one  day  and  removed  the  Light  I  had 
before.  It  was  a  bad  thunderstorm, 
Huzoor ;  at  least,  being  the  last  this 
slave  saw,  he  deems  it  bad.  But  it  is 
time  the  Great  Judge  took  his  exalted 
presence  to  yonder  snorting  demon  of 
a  boat,  for  it  is  ill-mannered,  waiting 
for  none.  God  knows  wherefore  it 
should  hurry  so.  The  river  remains 
always,  and  sooner  or  later  the  screech- 
ing thing  sticks  on  a  sandbank.*' 

"  True  enough,"  I  replied,  laughing. 
"  "Well !  salaam,  fakeer-jV^ 

"  Salaam,  Shelter  of  the  World.  May 
the  God  of  gods  elevate  your  honour 
to  the  post  of  Lieutenant-Governor 
without  delay." 

After  this  I  often  stopped  to  say  a 
few  words  to  the  old  man  and  give 
him  a  pipeful  of  tobacco.  For  the 
ferry-boat  fulfilled  his  prophecy  of  its 
future  to  a  nicety,  by  acquiring  inti- 


mate acquaintance  with  every  shallow 
in  the  river ;  a  habit  fatal  to  punctu- 
ality.    It  was  an  odd  sight  lying  out, 
so  trim  and  smart,  in  the  wastes  of 
sand  and  water.     Red  funnels  stand- 
ing  up  from   among  Beloochees  and 
their  camels,  bullocks  scarred  by  the 
plough,    zenana -vroTaen    huddled     in 
helpless  white  heaps,  wild  frontiersmen 
squatted  on  the  saddle-bags  with  which 
a    sham    orientalism    has    filled    our 
London   drawing-rooms.      Here   and 
there  a  dejected  half-caste  or  a  speci- 
men of  young  India  brimful  of  The 
Spectator,      Over  all,  on   the   bridge. 
Captain  Ham  Baksh  struggling  with  a 
double  nature,  represented  on  the  one 
side  by  his  nautical  pea-coat,  on  the 
other  by    his  baggy  native  trousers, 
"  Ease  her  !  stop  her  !    hard  astern  ! 
full  speed  ahead  !  "     All  the  shibbo- 
leths, even  to  the  monotonous  "  ha-la- 
mar-do    (by   the   mark   two)"   of   the 
leadsman   forrards.     Then,   suddenly, 
overboard    goes   science   and  with   it 
a  score  of  lascars  and  passengers,  who, 
knee-deep   in    the   ruddy  stream,  set 
their   backs    lazily  against    the  side, 
and    the    steam    ferry-boat    FioneeTf 
built  at  Barrow-in-Furness  with  all  the 
latest   improvements,   sidles    off    her 
sandbank  in  the  good  old  legitimate 
way  sanctioned   by  centuries  of  river 
usage.     To  return,  however,  to  fakeer- 
ji,     I  found  him  as  full  of  trite  piety 
as  a  copy-book,  and  yet  for  all  that^ 
the   fragments   of    his   history,   with 
which  he   interlarded  these  common- 
places, seemed  to  me  well  worth  con- 
sideration.    Imagine  a  man  born  of  a 
long  line  of  those  who  have  swept  the 
way  for  princes ;  who  have,  as  it  were, 
prepared  God's  earth  for  over-refined 
footsteps.      That,    briefly,    had    been 
/akeer-ji^s  inheritance  before  he  began 
to  wait   for   the  Footstep  of  Death. 
Whatever  it  may  do  to  the  imagination 
of   others,    the   position    appealed    to 
mine  strongly,   the  more  so  because, 
while   speaking   freely  enough  about 
the  family  of  decayed  kings  to  whom 
he  and  his  forbears  had  belonged,  and 
of  the  ruined  palace  they  still  possessed 
in  the  oldest  part  of  the  city,  he  wa& 


i 

The  Footstep  of  Death. 


441 


singularly  reticent  as  to  the  cause 
which  had  turned  him  into  a  religious 
beggar.  For  the  rest  he  waited  in 
godliness  and  contentment  (or  so  he 
assured  me)  for  the  Footstep  of  Death. 

The  phrase  grew  to  be  quite  a  catch- 
word between  us.  **  Not  come  yet, 
fakeer-ji  ^  '*  I  would  call  as  I  trotted 
past  after  a  few  days'  absence. 

"  Huzoor  !  I  am  still  waiting.  It 
will  come  some  time.*' 

One  night  in  the  rains  word  came 
from  a  contractor  over  the  water  that 
a  new  canal- dam  of  mine  showed  signs 
of  giving,  and,  anxious  to  be  on  the 
spot,  I  set  off  at  once  to  catch  the 
midnight  ferry-boat.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  that  ride  through  the  shesham 
aisle.  The  floods  were  out,  and  for 
the  best  part  of  the  way  a  level  sheet 
of  water  gleaming  in  the  moonlight 
lay  close  up  to  the  embankment  of  the 
avenue,  which  seemed  more  than  ever 
like  a  dim  colonnade  leading  to  an  un- 
seen Holy  of  Holies.  Not  a  breath  of 
wind,  not  a  sound  save  the  rustle  of 
birds  in  the  branches  overhead,  and 
suddenly,  causelessly,  a  snatch  of  song 
hushed  in  its  flrst  notes,  as  if  the 
singer  found  it  too  light  for  sleep,  too 
dark  for  song.  The  beat  of  my 
horse's  feet  seemed  to  keep  time 
with  the  stars  twinkling  through  the 
leaves. 

I  was  met  at  the  road's  end  by  the 
unwelcome  news  that  at  least  two 
hours  must  elapse  ere  the  Pioneer 
could  be  got  off  a  newly-invented  mud- 
bank  which  the  river  had  maliciously 
placed  in  a  totally  unexpected  place. 
Still  more  unwelcome  was  the  disco- 
very that,  in  my  hurry,  I  had  left  my 
tobacco-pouch  behind  me.  Nothing 
could  be  done  save  to  send  my  groom 
back  with  the  pony  and  instructions 
for  immediate  return  with  the  forgot- 
ten luxury.  After  which  I  strolled 
over  towards  my  friend  the  fakeer, 
who  sate  ghostlike  in  the  moonlight 
with  his  bowl  full  to  the  brim  in  front 
of  him.  "  That  snorting  devil  behaves 
worse  every  day,],'  he  said  fervently ; 
"  but  if  the  Shelter  of  the  Poor  will 
tarry  a  twinkling  I  will  sweep   him 


a  spot  suitable  for  his  exalted  pres- 
ence." 

Blind  as  he  was,  his  dexterous 
broom  had  traced  another  circle  of 
cleanliness  in  a  trice,  a  new  reed-mat, 
no  bigger  than  a  handkerchief,  was 
placed  in  the  centre,  and  I  was  being 
invited  to  ornament  just  such  another 
penwiper  as  the  fakeer  occupied  him- 
self. "  Mercy,"  he  continued,  as  I 
took  my  seat;  shifting  the  mat  so  as 
to  be  able  to  lean  my  back  against  the 
tree,  **  blesses  both  him  who  gives, 
and  those  who  take."  Even  Shake- 
speare, it  will  be  observed,  yields  at 
times  to  platitude.  "  For  see,"  he 
added  solemnly,  producing  something 
from  a  hollow  in  the  root,  **the  Pres- 
ence's own  tobacco  returns  to  the 
Presence's  pipe." 

Sure  enough  it  was  genuine  Golden 
Cloud,  and  the  relief  overpowered  me. 
There  I  was  after  a  space,  half-lying, 
half-sitting  in  the  clean  warm  sand, 
my  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  my 
head  as  I  looked  up  into  the  shimmer- 
ing Hght  and  shade  of  the  leaves. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  envy  you,  fakeer- 
ji.  We  who  go  to  bed  at  set  times 
and  seasons  don't  know  the  world  we 
live  in." 

"Religion  is  its  own  reward,"  re- 
marked the  graven  image  beside  me, 
for  he  had  gone  back  to  his  penwiper 
by  this  time.  But  I  was  talking  more 
to  myself  than  to  him,  in  the  half- 
drowsy  excitement  of  physical  pleasure, 
so  I  went  on  unheeding. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  night  since 
the  one  Jessica  looked  upon  !  and 
what  a  scent  there  is  in  the  air, — 
orange  blossoms  or  something  I  " 

"  It  is  a  tree  further  up  the  water- 
cut,  Huzoor,  a  hill  tree.  The  river 
may  have  brought  the  seed ;  it  happens 
so  sometimes.  Or  the  birds  may 
have  brought  it  from  the  city.  There 
was  a  tree  of  the  kind  in  a  garden 
there.  A  big  tree  with  large  white 
flowers  ;  so  large  that  you  can  hear 
them  fall." 

The  graven  image  sat  so  still  with 
its  face  to  the  river,  that  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  the  voice  I  heard  could  not 


442 


The  Faotstep  of  Death. 


belong  to  it.  A  dreamy  sense  of  un- 
reality added  to  my  drowsy  enjoyment 
of  the  surroundings. 

**  Magnolia,"  I  murmured  sleepily  ; 
"a  flower  to  dream  about, — hullo  ! 
what's  that?" 

A  faint  footfall  as  of  some  one  pass- 
ing down  an  echoing  passage,  loud, 
louder,  loudest,  making  me  start  up, 
wide  awake,  as  thefakeer's  cry  rose  on 
the  still  air :  "In  the  name  of  your 
God!" 

Some  one  was  passing  the  bridge 
from  the  river,  and  after  adding  his 
mite  to  the  bowl,  went  on  his  way. 

"  It  is  the  echo,  Huzoor,^*  explained 
the  old  man,  answering  my  start  of 
surprise.  "  The  tree  behind  us  is 
hollow  and  the  cut  is  deep.  Besides, 
to  night  the  water  runs  deep  and  dark 
as  Death  because  of  the  flood.  The 
step  is  always  louder  then." 

"No  wonder  you  hear  so  quickly," 
I  replied,  sinking  back  again  to  my 
comfort.  "  I  thought  it  must  be  the 
Footstep  of  Death  at  least." 

He  had  turned  towards  me,  and  in 
the  moonlight  I  could  see  those  clear 
eyes  of  his  shining  as  if  the  light  had 
come  into  them  again. 

"  Not  yet,  Huzoor  !  But  it  may  be 
the  next  one  for  all  we  know." 

What  a  gruesome  idea  !  Hark  ! 
There  it  was  again  ;  loud,  louder, 
loudest,  and  then  silence. 

"  That  came  from  the  city,  Huzoor, 
It  comes  and  goes  often,  for  the  law- 
courts  have  it  in  grip.  Perhaps  that 
is  worse  than  Death." 

"  Then  you  recognise  footsteps  %  " 

"  Surely.  No  two  men  walk 
the  same  ;  a  footstep  is  as  a  face. 
Sometimes  after  long  years  it  comes 
back,  and  then  you  know  it  has  passed 
before." 

**  Do  they  generally   come  back  ? " 

"  Those  from  the  city  go  back 
sooner  or  later  unless  Death  takes 
them.  Those  from  the  wilderness  do 
not  always  return.  The  city  holds 
them  fast,  in  the  palace  or  in  the 
gutter." 

Again  the  voice  seemed  to  me  not 
to  belong  to  the  still  figure  beside  me. 


"  It  makes  a  devilish  noise  I  admit," 
I  said,  half  to  myself  ;  "  but " 

"  Perhaps  if  the  Huzoor  listened  for 
Death  as  I  do  he  might  keep  awake. 
Or  perhaps  if  my  lord  pleases  I  might 
tell  him  a  story  of  footsteps  to  drive 
the  idle  dreams  from  his  brain  till  the 
hour  of  that  snorting  demon  comes  in 
due  time  1 " 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  I  briefly  as  I  looked 
up  at  the  stars. 

So  he  began.  "  It's  a  small  story, 
Huzoor,  A  tale  of  footsteps  from 
beginning  to  end,  for  I  am  blind.  Yet 
life  was  not  always  listening.  They 
used  to  say  that  Cheytu  had  the  longest 
sight,  the  longest  legs,  and  the  longest 
wind  of  any  boy  of  his  age.  I  was 
Cheytu."  He  paused,  and  I  watched  a 
dancing  shadow  of  a  leaf  till  he  went 
on.  "  The  little  Princess  said  Cheytu 
had  the  longest  tongue  too,  for  I  used 
to  sit  in  the  far  corner  by  the  pillar 
beyond  her  carpet  and  tell  her  stories. 
She  used  to  call  for  Cheytu  all  day. 
long.  *  Cheytu,  smooth  the  ground  for 
Aimna's  feet' — *  Cheytu,  sweep  the 
dead  flowers  from  Aimna's  path' — 
*  Cheytu,  fan  the  flies  from  Aimna's 
doll,' — for  naturally,  Huzoor,  Cheytu 
the  sweeper  did  not  fan  the  flies  from 
the  little  Princess  herself;  that  was 
not  his  work.  I  belonged  to  her 
footsteps.  I  was  up  before  dawn 
sweeping  the  arcades  of  the  old  house 
ready  for  them,  and  late  at  night  it 
was  my  work  to  gather  the  dust  of 
them  and  the  dead  flowers  she  had 
played  with,  and  bury  them  away  in 
the  garden  out  of  sight." 

A  dim  perception  that  this  was 
strange  talk  for  a  sweeper  made  me 
murmur  sleepily,  "That  was  very 
romantic  of  you,  Cheytu."  On  the 
other  hand  it  fitted  my  environment 
so  admirably  that  the  surprise  passed 
almost  as  it  came. 

"  She  was  a  real  Princess,  the 
daughter  of  Kings  who  had  been, — 
God  knows  when  !  It  is  written 
doubtless  somewhere.  Yes !  a  real 
Princess,  though  she  could  barely 
walk,  and  the  track  of  her  little  feet 
was  often  broken  by  hand-marks  in 


The  Footstep  of  Death, 


443 


the  dust.  For  naturally,  Uuzoor,  the 
dust  might  help  her,  but  not  I,  Obey tu, 
who  swept  it  for  her  steps.  That 
was  my  task  till  the  day  of  the 
thunderstorm.  The  house  seemed 
dead  of  the  heat.  Not  a  breath  of 
life  anywhere,  so  at  sundown  they  set 
her  to  sleep  on  the  topmost  roof  under 
the  open  sky.  Her  nurse,  full  of 
frailty  as  women  are,  crept  down 
while  the  child  slept,  to  work  evil  to 
mankind  as  women  will.  Huzoor,  it 
was  a  bad  storm.  The  red  clouds  had 
hung  over  us  all  day  long,  joining  the 
red  dust  from  below,  so  that  it  came 
unawares  at  last,  splitting  the  air  and 
sending  a  great  ladder  of  light  down 
the  roof. 

'*  *  Aimna  !  Aimna  !  *  cried  some 
one.  I  was  up  first  and  had  her  in 
my  arms  ;  for  see  you,  Huzoor,  it  was 
life  or  death,  and  the  dead  belong  to 
us  whether  they  be  kings  or  slaves. 
It  was  out  on  the  bare  steps,  and 
she  sleeping  sound  as  children  sleep, 
that  the  light  came.  The  light  of  a 
thousand  days  in  my  eyes  and  on 
her  face.  It  was  the  last  thing  I  saw, 
Huzoor ;  the  very  last  thing  Cheytu 
the  sweeper  ever  saw. 

"  But  I  could  hear.  I  could  hear 
her  calling  and  I  knew  how  her  face 
must  be  changing  by  the  change  in 
her  voice.  And  then  one  day  I  found 
myself  sweeping  the  house  against  her 
wedding- feast ;  heard  her  crying 
amongst  her  girl  friends  in  the  inner 
room.  What  then?  Girls  always  cry 
at  their  weddings.  I  went  with  her, 
of  course,  to  the  new  life  because  I 
had  swept  the  way  for  her  ever  since 
she  could  walk,  and  she  needed  me 
more  than  ever  in  a  strange  house. 
It  was  a  fine  rich  house,  with  marble 
floors  and  a  marble  summerhouse  on 
the  roof  above  her  rooms.  People 
said  she  had  made  a  good  bargain  with 
her  beauty ;  perhaps,  but  that  child's 
face  that  I  saw  in  the  light  was  worth 
more  than  money,  Huzoor.  She  had 
ceased  crying  by  this  time,  for  she  had 
plenty  to  amuse  her.  Singers  and 
players,  and  better  story-tellers  than 
Cheytu  the  sweeper.     It  was  but  fair, 


for  look  you,  her  man  had  many  more 
wives  to  amuse  him.  I  used  to  hear 
the  rustle  of  her  long  silk  garments, 
the  tinkle  of  her  ornaments,  and  the 
cadence  of  her  laughter.  Girls  ought 
to  laugh,  Huzoor,  and  it  was  spring 
time ;  what  we  natives  call  spring, 
when  the  rain  turns  dry  sand  to  grass 
and  the  roses  race  the  jasmine  for  the 
first  blossom.  The  tree  your  honour 
called  magnolia  grew  in  the  women's 
court,  and  some  of  the  branches  spread 
over  the  marble  summerhouse  almost 
hiding  it  from  below.  Others  again 
formed  a  screen  against  the  blank 
white  wall  of  the  next  house.  The  flow- 
ers smelt  so  strong  that  I  wondered  how 
she  could  bear  to  sleep  amongst  them 
in  the  summerhouse.  Even  in  my 
place  below  on  the  stones  of  the  court- 
yard they  kept  me  awake.  People 
said  I  had  fever,  but  it  was  not  that ; 
only  the  scent  of  the  flowers.  I  lay 
awake  one  dark,  starless  night,  and 
then  I  first  heard  the  footstep,  if  it 
was  a  footstep.  Loud,  louder,  loudest ; 
then  a  silence  save  for  the  patter  of 
the  falling  flowers.  I  heard  it  often 
after  that,  and  always  when  it  had 
passed  the  flowers  fell.  They  fell 
about  the  summerhouse  too,  and  in 
the  morning  I  used  to  sweep  them 
into  a  heap  and  fling  them  over  the 
parapet.  But  one  day,  Huzoor,  they 
fell  close  at  hand,  and  my  groping 
fingers  seeking  the  cause  found  a 
plank  placed  bridge-wise  amongst  the 
branches.  Huzoor!  was  there  any 
wonder  the  flowers  fell  all  crushed 
and  broken?  That  night  I  listened 
again,  and  again  the  footsteps  came 
amid  a  shower  of  blossoms.  What 
was  to  be  done  %  Her  women  were  as 
women  are,  and  the  others  were 
jealous  already.  Next  day  when  I 
went  to  sweep  I  strewed  the  fallen 
flowers  thick,  thick  as  a  carpet  round 
her  bed ;  for  she  had  quick  wits  I 
knew. 

"  *  Cheytu  !  Cheytu  I  * 

"  The  old  call  came  as  I  knew  it 
would,  and  thinking  of  that  little 
child's  face  in  the  light  I  went  up  to 
her  boldly. 


444 


The  Footstep  of  Death. 


"  *  My  Princess/  I  said  in  reply  to 
her  question  as  I  bent  over  the  flowers, 
*  'tis  the  footstep  makes  them  fall  so 
thick.  If  it  is  your  pleasure  I  will 
bid  it  cease.   They  may  hurt  your  feet.' 

"  I  knew  from  her  silence  she  under- 
stood. Suddenly  she  laughed  ;  such 
a  girl's  laugh. 

"  *  Flowers  are  soft  to  tread  upon, 
Cheytu.  Go !  you  need  sweep  for 
me  no  more.' 

"  I  laughed  too  as  I  went.  Not  sweep 
for  her  when  she  only  knew  God's 
earth  after  I  had  made  it  ready  for  her 
feet  I  It  was  a  woman's  idle  word, 
but  woman-like  she  would  think  and 
see  wisdom  for  herself. 

"  That  night  I  listened  once  more. 
The  footstep  must  come  once  I  knew  ] 
just  once,  and  after  that  wisdom  and 
safety.  Huzoor  !  it  came,  and  the 
flowers  fell  softly.  But  wisdom  was 
too  late.  I  tried  to  get  at  her  to  save 
her  from  their  pitiless  justice.  I  heard 
her  cries  for  mercy ;  I  heard  her  cry 
even  for  Cheytu  the  sweeper  before 
they  flung  me  from  the  steps  where 
the  twinkling  lights  went  up  and  down 
as  if  the  very  stars  from  the  sky  had 
come  to  spy  on  her.  What  did  they 
do  to  her  while  I  lay  crushed  among 
the  crushed  flowers?  Who  knows] 
It  is  often  done,  my  lord,  behind  the 
walls.  She  died  ;  that  is  all  I  know, 
that  is  all  I  cared  for.  When  I  came 
back  to  life  she  was  dead  and  the  foot- 
step had  fled  from  revenge.  It  had 
friends  over  the  Border  where  it  could 
pause  in  safety  till  the  tale  was  forgot- 
ten. Such  things  are  forgotten  quickly, 
my  lord,  because  the  revenge  must  be 
secret  as  the  wrong  ;  else  it  is  shame, 
and  shame  must  not  come  nigh  good 
families.  But  the  blind  do  not  forget 
easily ;  perhaps  they  hav^  less  to  re- 
member. Could  I  forget  the  child's 
face  in  the  light  ?  As  I  told  the  Pres- 
ence, those  who  go  from  the  city 
come  back  to  it  sooner  or  later  unless 
Death  takes  them  first.  So  I  wait  for 
the  Footstep — hark  !  " 

Loud — louder — loudest:  *' In  the 
name  of  your  own  God." 


* 


* 


« 


* 


Did  I  wake  with  the  cry  1  Or  did  I 
only  open  my  eyes  to  see  a  glimmer  of 
dawn  paling  the  sky,  the  birds  shift- 
ing in  the  branches,  the  old  man  seated 
bolt  upright  in  his  penwiper. 

"  That  was  the  first  passenger, 
Huzoor, ^^  he  said  quietly.  "The  boat 
has  come.  It  is  time  your  honour 
conferred  dignity  on  ill  manners  by 
joining  it. 

"  But  the  Footstep  !  the  Princess  ! 

you  were  telling  me  just  now " 

"  What  does  a  sweeper  know  of 
princesses,  my  lord?  The  Presence 
slept,  and  doubtless  he  dreamed 
dreams.     The  tobacco " 

He  paused.  **Well,"  said  I  curi- 
ously. ^^ Huzoor  !  this  slave  steeps  his 
tobacco  in  the  sleep-compeller.  It 
gives  great  contentment." 

I  looked  down  at  my  pipe.  It  was 
but  half  smoked  through.  Was  this 
really  the  explanation  ? 

"  But  the  echo  1 "  I  protested.  "  I 
heard  it  but  now." 

"  Of  a  truth  there  is  an  echo.  That 
is  not  a  dream.  Fqp  the  rest  it  is 
well.  The  time  has  passed  swiftly, 
the  Huzoor  is  rested,  his  servant  has 
returned,  the  boat  has  come — all  in 
contentment.  The  Shelter  of  the 
World  can  proceed  on  his  journey  in 
peace,  and  return  in  peace." 

**  Unless  the  Footstep  of  Death  over- 
takes me  meanwhile,"  said  I  but  half 
satisfied. 

^^  Huzoor  /  It  never  overtakes  the 
just.  Death  and  the  righteous  look 
at  each  other  in  the  face  as  friends. 
When  the  Footstep  comes  I  will  go  to 
meet  it,  and  so  will  you.  Hark  !  the 
demon  screeches.  Peace  go  with  you, 
my  lord." 

About  a  year  after  this  the  daily 
police  reports  brought  me  the  news 
that  my  friend  the  olAfakeer  had  been 
found  dead  in  the  water-cut.  An 
unusually  heavy  flood  had  under- 
mined the  banks  and  loosened  the 
bridge  ;  it  must  have  fallen  while 
the  old  man  was  on  it,  for  his  body 
was  jammed  against  the  plank  which 
had  stuck  across  the  channel  a  little 
way  down  the  stream.     He  had  kept 


The  Footstep  of  Death. 


445 


his  word  and  gone  to  meet  the  Foot- 
step. A  certain  unsatisfied  curiosity, 
which  had  never  quite  left  me  since 
that  night  in  the  rains,  made  me  ac- 
company the  doctor  when,  as  in  duty 
bound,  he  went  to  the  dead-house  to 
examine  the  body.  The  smiling  mask 
was  unchanged,  but  the  eyes  were  open, 
and  looked  somehow  less  empty  dead 
than  in  the  almost  terrible  clearness 
of  life.  The  right  hand  was  fast 
clenched  over  something. 

"  Only  a  crushed  magnolia  blossom,'* 
said  the  doctor,  gently  unclasping  the 
dead  fingers.  "  Poor  beggar  !  it  must 
have  been  floating  in  the  water, — 
there's  a  tree  up  the  cut ;  I've  often 
smelt  it  from  the  road.  Drowning  men, 
— you  know  the  rest." 

Did   1 1     The   coincidence   was,   to 


say  the  least  of  it,  curious.  It  be- 
came more  curious  still  when,  three 
weeks  afterwards,  the  unrecognisable 
body  of  a  man  was  found  half  buried 
in  the  silt  left  in  the  alluvial  basin 
by  the  subsiding  floods;  a  man  of 
more  than  middle  age,  whose  right 
hand  was  clenched  tight,  over  no- 
thing. 

So  the  question  remains.  Did  I 
dream  that  night,  or  did  the  Footstep 
of  Death  bring  revenge  when  it  came 
over  the  bridge  at  last  %  I  have  never 
been  able  to  decide ;  and  the  only  thing 
which  remains  sure  is  the  figure  of  the 
ol^fakeer  with  blind  eyes,  looking  out 
on  the  uncertain  mirage  of  the  river 
waiting  in  godliness  and  contentment, 
— for  what  1 


446 


HAMPTON    COURT.i 


Few  of  our  historic  buildings  recall 
the  names  of  their  founders  as  inevi- 
tably as  Hampton  Court  suggests  the 
name  of  Thomas  Wolsey.  We  may 
think  of  Windsor  Castle  or  the  Tower 
of  London  without  thinking  of  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror  or  Julius  Caesar ; 
we  may  occasionally  forget  that  West- 
minster Hall  was  first  raised  by  Ruf  us, 
or  that  St.  James's  was  originally 
built  by  Henry  VIII.  ;  but  no  one 
whose  thoughts  are  turned  for  a 
few  moments  to  Hampton  Court  ever 
fails  to  remember  that  it  was  created 
by  the  son  of  the  Ipswich  tradesman. 
There  is  no  more  striking  figure  in 
English  history  than  the  great  Car- 
dinal who  ruled  the  kingdom  for 
nearly  twenty  years,  and  whose  aims, 
even  when  they  cannot  be  called  lofty, 
were  always  extended  and  magnificent. 
Mr.  Law,  who  has  recently  completed 
his  valuable  History  of  Hcmipton 
Courts  does  full  justice  to  Wolsey*s 
character  and  conceptions,  When  he 
was  established  in  power,  the  Emperor 
Charles  and  Francis  I.  contended  for 
his  friendship,  and  his  official  emolu- 
ments from  Church  and  State  were 
swelled  by  pensions  from  both  these 
sovereigns.  The  income  he  enjoyed 
as  Lord  Chancellor  and  Primate  of  the 
Northern  Province  was  very  large. 
Besides  this,  the  revenues  of  three 
sees  whose  holders  were  foreigners  fell 
into  his  hands  ;  he  secured  also  the 
wealthy  bishopric  of  Winchester,  and 
the  great  Abbacy  of  St.  Albans. 
Endowed  with  such  resources  as 
these,  this  aspiring  genius  was  able  to 
lavish  on  his  undertakings  sums  that 

^  The  History  of  Hampton  Court  Palace  ;  by 
Ernest  Law.  In  three  volumes,  illustrated 
with  one  hundred  and  thirty  autotypes,  etch- 
ings, engravings,  maps  and  plans.  London, 
1885— 9L 


would  have  exhausted  the  treasury  of 
many  princes. 

In  January,  1515,  the  Knights 
Hospitallers  of  St.  John  granted  a 
lease  of  their  manor  of  Hampton 
Court  for  ninety-nine  years  to  Thomas 
Wolsey,  Archbishop  of  York,  at  a 
yearly  rental  of  £50.  The  most 
reverend  lessee  was  created  Cardinal 
in  September  of  the  same  year,  and  he 
resolved  that  the  habitation  which  he 
had  already  begun  to  erect  on  his  new 
possession  should  be  worthy  of  his 
new  dignities  and  ever-growing  great- 
ness. Mr.  Law's  careful  and  interest- 
ing volumes  contain  a  full  account  of 
the  rise,  progress,  and  vicissitudes  of 
the  noble  palace  thus  designed,  and  the 
narrative  is  embellished  with  abun- 
dant illustrations,  which  add  greatly 
to  the  attractions  of  the  work. 

Wolsey' s  edifice  consisted  of  five 
great  courts,  surrounded  by  public  and 
private  rooms,  and  provided  with  all 
the  accessories  of  regal  state  and  en- 
joyment. The  great  west  front  of  the 
building,  when  first  finished,  presented 
an  aspect  very  different  from  its 
present  appearance.  "  The  central 
gateway,  now  dwarfed  to  three  storys, 
was  then  a  grand  and  imposing  Tudor 
gate-house,  or  square  tower,  five 
storys  in  height,  with  four  corner  oc- 
tagonal turrets,  which  were  capped  by 
leaden  cupolas  adorned  with  crockets, 
pinnacles,  and  gilded  vanes."  The 
first  court,  which  is  still  the  largest 
quadrangle  in  the  palace,  led  into  a 
second,  called  the  Clock  Court,  where 
the  Cardinal  had  his  private  apart- 
ments. Here  were  placed  medallion 
busts  of  Roman  Emperors,  which  are 
sometimes  erroneously  stated  to  have 
been  presents  from  Leo  X.  On  the 
inner  side  of  the  gateway  under  the 
Clock  Tower  were  displayed  the  Car- 


Hampton  Court. 


447 


dinar s  arms,  which  curiously  enough 
were  left  undisturbed  by  Henry  VIII. 
when  he  afterwards  substituted  his 
own  arms  and  cognisances  everywhere 
else.  Wolsey's  closet  was  draped  with 
cloth  of  gold,  the  ceiling  was  fretted 
with  gold ;  all  his  reception-rooms 
were  equally  resplendent,  and  the 
windows  blazed  with  painted  glass. 
Portions  of  the  structure  within  these 
two  courts  belong  also  to  Wolsey's 
edifice,  but  the  inmost  courts  he  prob- 
ably did  not  live  to  finish,  and  most 
of  the  present  buildings  were  erected 
at  later  dates.  The  Cardinal' s  hall, 
as  we  shall  see,  was  pulled  down  by 
Henry  VIII.  on  his  taking  possession, 
and  the  chapel  was  certainly  remodel- 
led, if  not  entirely  rebuilt,  by  the 
same  monarch.  All  things,  however, 
considered,  Mr.  Law  thinks  that  the 
original  palace  cannot  have  been  much 
smaller  than  the  existing  one,  which 
covers  eight  acres  and  has  a  thousand 
rooms. 

All  Wolsey*s  buildings  were  care- 
fully drained  by  means  of  great  brick 
sewers  discharging  into  the  Thames, 
The  system  adopted  was  so  complete 
that  it  was  never  found  needful  to 
supersede  or  alter  it  till  the  year  1871, 
when  modern  rules  of  sanitation  re- 
quired the  outfall  into  the  river  to  be 
stopped.  For  the  supply  of  his  house- 
hold Wolsey  brought  water  of  great 
purity  from  springs  in  Coombe  Hill, 
a  spot  three  miles  distant,  through 
leaden  pipes  laid  under  the  bed  of  the 
Thames.  On  the  embellishment  and 
furnishing  of  his  new  habitation  the 
Cardinal  bestowed  equal  care  and 
attention.  Nothing  was  too  great  or 
too  small  for  the  grasp  of  his  intellect. 
We  may  almost  say,  with  the  late 
Professor  Brewer,  that  this  great  man 
could  build  a  kitchen,  or  plan  a  col- 
lege, or  raise  a  tower  as  no  man  since 
has  been  able  to  do  any  of  these 
things.  And  his  taste  was  as  compre- 
hensive as  his  genius.  If  Quentin 
Matsys  had  a  picture  on  the  easel, 
Wolsey  was  ready  to  purchase  it.  If 
there  was  a  curious  clock,  it  was 
secured   for  him.      His  fondness  for 


tapestry  amounted  to  a  passion.  Trusty 
agents  ransacked  the  Continent  to 
procure  choice  sets  of  arras,  new  and 
old,  for  the  rising  palace.  If  the 
owner  generally  preferred  Scriptural 
subjects,  as  became  a  prince  of  the 
Church,  he  also  collected  many  hang- 
ings wrought  with  scenes  from  classic 
or  medieval  story.  Thus,  while 
the  walls  of  one  chamber  set  forth  the 
history  of  Samuel  or  David  or  Esther, 
those  of  another  glowed  with  the 
labours  of  Hercules,  the  woes  of  Priam, 
or  the  Romaunte  of  the  Rose ;  in  the 
rooms  where  he  received  visitors,  the 
tapestries  were  changed  once  a  week. 
No  less  than  two  hundred  and  eighty 
beds  were  provided  for  strangers,  with 
superb  canopies  and  curtains  of  silk  or 
velvet.  There  were  bedsteads  of  alabas- 
ter, quilts  of  down,  and  pillow-cases 
embroidered  with  silk  and  gold.  The 
chairs  of  state  were  covered  with  cloth 
of  gold  ;  the  tables  and  cabinets  were 
of  the  most  costly  woods.  Much  of 
the  splendid  furniture  was  emblazoned 
with  "  My  lord's  arms  "  ;  everywhere 
was  impressed  the  Cardinal's  hat.  The 
same  magnificence  appeared  in  the 
decorations  and  ornaments  of  the 
chapel.  But  the  forty-four  gorgeous 
copes  of  one  suit,  and  the  rest  of  the 
sacerdotal  pomp  displayed  there  were 
eclipsed  by  the  majesty  of  Wolsey *s 
secular  equipment.  The  annual  ex- 
penses of  his  household  exceeded 
£30,000,  an  immense  sum  for  those 
days.  His  retinue  of  five  hundred 
persons,  his  kingly  stud,  his  sumptuous 
open  table  are  mentioned  in  every  his- 
tory. When  he  rode  to  and  from 
Westminster  in  his  character  of  Lord 
Chancellor,  his  mule  was  attended  by 
a  long  train  of  nobles  and  knights  on 
horseback ;  his  pursuivant,  ushers,  and 
other  officers  led  the  way  in  rich 
liveries,  while  footmen  with  gilded 
pole-axes  brought  up  the  rear. 

At  Hampton  Court  the  haughty 
Minister  received  the  ambassadors  of 
foreign  Powers,  and  entertained  them 
with  regal  luxury.  From  it,  at  the 
height  of  his  power,  he  directed  every 
department  of  the  realm.  While  Eras- 


448 


Hampton  Court. 


mus  declared  that  he  was  omnipotent, 
and  the  Venetian  Giustinian  that  he 
was  seven  times  greater  than  the  Pope 
himself,  Wolsey's  enemy  Skelton,  in 
his  satire  Why  come  ye  not  to  Cov/rt  ? 
asserts  that  "  Hampton  Court  hath 
the  pre-eminence."  Undoubtedly  the 
palace  which  was  the  most  signal 
monument  of  the  statesman's  eminence 
assisted  to  hasten  his  decline.  The 
jealousy  of  a  monarch  like  Henry 
could  only  be  kept  down  by  the  sub- 
ject's watchful  submission.  At  the 
very  moment  of  his  final  disgrace,  it 
was  said  that  the  King  had  no  ill-will 
to  the  Cardinal,  but  a  great  desire  for 
his  remaining  possessions,  Mr.  Law 
shows  that  so  early  as  midsummer  1525 
at  least,  Wolsey  had  made  over  to  the 
Crown  his  interest  in  the  manor  of 
Hampton  with  the  stately  pile  which 
he  had  raised  and  its  priceless  contents, 
though  down  to  the  time  of  his  down- 
fall he  continued  to  make  use  of  all 
as  though  still  his  own  property.  His 
biographer  Cavendish  describes  a  great 
feast  which  he  made  there,  in  October 
1527,  for  a  French  embassy  headed  by 
the  Grand  Master  Montmorency,  whose 
retinue  freely  expressed  their  astonish- 
ment at  the  wonderful  value  of  the 
hangings  and  plate.  The  banqueting- 
rooms  were  illuminated  by  innumer- 
able candelabra  of  silver  gilt.  Supper 
was  served  to  the  sound  of  trumpets, 
and  accompanied  by  a  concert  of  music. 
But  the  host  was  not  yet  come,  having 
been  detained  in  the  Court  of  Chancery 
by  the  hearing  of  a  long  cause.  Before 
t  he  second  course  he  entered  suddenly, 
booted  and  spurred,  and  sitting  down 
in  his  riding-dress,  made  a  brilliant 
display  of  the  convivial  talents  which 
had  first  recommended  him  to  the 
royal  favour.  This,  however,  was  the 
last  grand  entertainment  given  by 
Wolsey  at  Hampton  Court,  and  we 
find  that  from  the  beginning  of  1528 
the  expense  of  the  works  then  in  pro- 
gress was  borne  by  the  King.  Yet 
the  Cardinal  remained  in  possession 
till  July  1529,  when  he  took  a  last 
leave  of  his  beloved  brick  towers  and 
courts.     A  few   weeks   later  he   was 


deprived  of  the  Great  Seal,  stripped  of 
his  goods,  and  ordered  to  quit  York 
House  for  Esher  Place,  while  his 
master  installed  himself  at  Hampton 
Court,  accompanied  by  Anne  Boleyn, 
who  made  herself  daily  more  necessary 
to  her  royal  admirer. 

Henry  took  great  delight  in  his  new 
residence,  and  laid  out  large  sums  in 
enlarging  and  still  further  embellish- 
ing the  fabric.  He  pulled  down  Wol- 
sey's  hall  as  insufficient  for  a  royal 
mansion,  erecting  in  its  place  the 
present  Great  Hall  with  its  richly 
carved  roof.  His  additions  were  not 
completed  till  the  end  of  1538,  from 
which  date  the  palace  remained  pretty 
well  unaltered  till  the  time  of  William 
III.  In  1531  the  Hospitallers  granted 
to  His  Majesty  the  fee-simple  of  the 
manor  in  exchange  for  other  mes- 
suages. Anne  Boleyn  passed  her  honey- 
moon here,  and  presided  as  Queen  at 
a  succession  of  banquets,  masques,  in- 
terludes, and  sports.  But  Henry  was 
already  flirting  with  her  maids  of  hon- 
our, and  it  was  here  that  some  time 
afterwards  the  new  Queen  surprised 
Jane  Seymour  sitting  on  his  knee. 
The  Queen's  New  Lodgings,  which 
were  begun  for  the  unfortunate  Anne, 
were  completed  for  her  successor. 
Scarcely  had  the  workmen  finished  ob- 
literating the  badges  and  initials  of 
Anne  Boleyn  and  substituting  those 
of  Jane  Seymour,  than  the  palace  wit- 
nessed the  birth  of  Edward  VL,  and 
twelve  days  later  the  death  of  his 
mother.  In  the  summer  of  1540  Anne 
of  Cleves  was  here  awaiting  her  sen- 
tence of  divorce.  That  pronounced,  she 
removed  to  Richmond,  and  Catherine 
Howard  was  openly  shown  as  Queen  at 
Hampton  Court.  Here  in  July  1643 
Catherine  Parr  was  married  and  pro- 
claimed Queen.  While  his  vigour 
lasted  Henry  occupied  his  leismre  with 
field-sports  in  the  parks,  which  then, 
as  now,  consisted  of  two  main  divisions, 
— Bushey  Park  and  the  Home  Park — 
separated  from  each  other  by  the  Kings- 
ton Road.  When  he  became  too  cor- 
pulent to  bear  the  exertion  of  frequent 
journeys  to  Windsor  Forest,  he  pro- 


Hampton  Court, 


449 


cured  an  Act  of  Parliament  ordaining 
that  the  manor  of  Hampton  and  an 
extensive  tract  of  adjacent  country- 
should  be  enclosed  in  a  wooden  paling 
and  created  a  deer  forest  or  chase, 
under  the  name  of  Hampton  Court 
Chase,  all  the  game  therein  being  pre- 
served for  the  King's  diversion.  This 
high-handed  measure,  worthy  of  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror,  provoked  loud 
complaints  from  the  inhabitants  of  the 
various  parishes  appropriated,  and  in 
the  next  reign  the  deer  and  paling 
outside  the  parks  were  removed  by 
order  of  the  Privy  Council,  though  the 
district  is  still  nominally  a  Royal 
Chase  under  the  authority  of  a  Keeper 
appointed  by  the  Crown. 

As  the  King's  life  drew  towards  its 
close,  his  visits  to  the  river-side  palace 
became  more  prolonged.  A  picture, 
attributed  to  Holbein  or  one  of  his 
school,  which  still  hangs  in  the  Queen's 
Audience  Chamber,  shows  Bluff  Harry 
at  this  period  seated  in  the  midst  of 
his  family,  his  right  hand  resting  on 
the  shoulder  of  Prince  Edward  who 
stands  by  his  father,  while  Catherine 
Parr  sits  on  his  left,  and  the  two 
princesses,  Mary  and  Elizabeth,  are 
stationed  on  either  side.  When  no 
longer  capable  of  hunting,  the  King 
amused  himself  indoors  with  back- 
gammon, shovelboard,  and  similar 
pastimes,  at  which,  in  wet  weather 
and  on  long  evenings,  he  staked  and 
lost  large  sums.  Here  in  1543  and 
the  following  year  he  kept  Christmas 
with  great  state,  and  it  was  perhaps 
on  the  latter  occasion  that  the  poetic 
Earl  of  Surrey,  who  was  present,  be- 
came enamoured  of  his  fair  Geraldine, 
of  whom  he  says,  "  Hampton  me  taught 
to  wish  her  tirst  for  mine." 

More  sombre  associations  are  con- 
nected with  the  place  in  the  two  follow- 
ing reigns.  Edward  VI.  was  here  with 
his  uncle  Somerset  in  the  autumn  of 
1549,  when  the  Protector  received  in- 
telligence of  the  league  formed  against 
him  by  his  enemies  on  the  Council.  It 
was  from  Hampton  Court  that  the 
desperate  statesman  issued  his  pro- 
clamation calling  on  all  loyal  subjects 

No.  390. — VOL.  Lxv. 


to   come  armed  to  the  help  of  their 
sovereign ;  and  when  the  confederates 
seized  the   Tower  of  London,  he  pro- 
duced the   Boy   King,  imploring  the 
country  folk  to  "be good  to  us  and  our 
uncle."     But  that  same  night  Edward 
had  to  be  hurried  to  Windsor,  and  a 
few  days  later   the  Protector   was   n 
prisoner.     It  was  at  Hampton  Court 
that  Edward  in  1551  raised  his  uncle's 
triumphant  rival  to  the  dukedom  of 
Northumberland,   and   the   father    of 
Jane  Grey  to  the  dukedom  of  Suffolk. 
Here   Queen  Mary  and   her   Spanish 
Consort  lived  in  great  retirement  after 
their  marriage,  winning  little  popular- 
ity :  "  The  hall  door  within  the  Court 
was  continually  shut,  so  that  no  man 
might  enter  unless  his   errand   were 
first  known  ;  which  seemed  strange  to 
Englishmen  that  had  not  been  used 
thereto."     No  less  disgust  was  felt  at 
the  niggardly  table  kept  by  the  happy 
pair.      Instead    of    celebrating    their 
union,  as   Henry    had  celebrated  his 
numerous  weddings,  with  liberal  hos- 
pitality,  they    dined    in   private     on 
dishes  which  the  English  reserved  for 
fast- days.     It  was  to  Hampton  Court 
that  Mary  withdrew  for  quiet  in  April 
1555,  when  she  was  daily  expecting  to 
become  a  mother,  and  the  despatches 
announcing    her    safe    delivery    were 
prepared  and  signed  by  the  King  and 
Queen   "At   our   house   of    Hampton 
Court,"  though  the  time  never  came 
to  fill  in  the  blanks  which  had   been 
left  for  the  date,  and  the  termination 
by  which  the  unfinished  word  fil  was 
to  be  made  to  serve  for  a  boy  or  a  girl 
as  occasion  should  require.      It  was 
while  the  birth  was  still  impatiently 
expected,  and  not  in  the  previous  win- 
ter as  some  authorities  have  stated, 
that  Elizabeth   was   summoned  from 
Woodstock  to  Hampton    Court,    and 
pressed  to  renounce  the  faith  in  which 
she  had  been  educated.    Here  occurred 
the   famous    interview     between   the 
sisters   when     Philip    was    concealed 
behind  the  arras  ready,  as  some  have 
supposed,  to  protect  Elizabeth  against 
any  unseemly  violence  from  the  Queen, 
but  probably  playing  the  more  simple 

Q   G 


450 


Hampton  Court. 


part  of  an  eavesdropper.  Whatever 
were  the  feelings  of  the  King  and  Queen, 
with  this  interview  ended  Elizabeth's 
imprisonment.  Thenceforth  she  was 
treated  as  heiress  to  the  throne,  while 
Philip,  after  chafing  four  months  at 
Hampton  Court  with  his  barren  wife, 
took  ship  in  August  for  the  Nether- 
lands. 

Much  of  the  scandal  about  Queen 
Elizabeth  had  its  origin  at  Hampton 
Court,  but  duiing  her  long  reign  the 
palace  was  the  scene  of  few  important 
events.  The  Virgin  Queen  spent  much 
time  there  with  the  husband  of  Amy 
Robsart  while  she  was  trifling  with 
the  early  matrimonial  schemes  pro- 
posed to  her  by  her  Council  or  allies ; 
but  as  time  ran  on,  when  she  was  not 
at  Westminster,  she  preferred  Wind- 
sor, Greenwich,  or  Richmond  for  her 
residence,  and  made  only  flying  visits 
to  the  place  where  her  mother  had 
won  and  lost  her  crown.  In  1562 
Elizabeth  was  seized  with  small-pox  at 
Hampton  Court,  and  for  some  hours 
the  greatest  alarm  prevailed  among 
the  friends  of  the  Reformation.  When 
six  autumns  later  the  Queen  of  Scots 
was  a  prisoner  at  Bolton  Castle,  and 
Elizabeth  summoned  to  Hampton 
Court  a  great  council  of  peers  to  hear 
the  contents  of  the  famous  Casket 
read,  and  to  decide  on  the  charges 
against  Mary  respecting  the  murder  of 
Darnley,  it  was  the  turn  of  the  Ro- 
manists to  feel  despondent.  After 
this  down  to  the  end  of  the  century 
the  annals  of  the  place  record  nothing 
more  interesting  than  Christmas  fes- 
tivities, with  the  usual  round  of  balls, 
masquerades,  and  plays.  A  temporary 
theatre  was  fitted  up  in  the  Great  Hall, 
but  no  permanent  improvements  or 
changes  of  much  moment  were  made 
either  in  the  buildings  or  parks.  The 
interior  of  the  palace  is  described  by 
Paul  Hentzner,  who  was  in  England 
shortly  before  the  Queen's  death.  The 
German  traveller  speaks  of  two  Pres- 
ence Chambers  and  numerous  other 
rooms  shining  with  tapestry  of  gold, 
silver,  and  silk  or  velvet ;  of  several 
royal     beds,    including,    besides     the 


Queen's  own  bed  of  state,  another,  the 
tester  of  which  had  been  worked  by 
Anne  Boleyn  for  Henry  VIII.,  and  a 
third  in  which  Edward  VI.  was  said  to 
have  been  born  and  his  mother  to 
have  died  ;  of  the  Great  Hall  adorned 
with  noble  portraits  and  many  rare 
curiosities.  Everywhere  gleamed  rich 
hangings  and  cushions  and  quilts  em.- 
broidered  with  the  precious  metals. 
The  visitor  saw  also  a  cabinet  called 
Paradise,  "  Where,  besides  that  every- 
thing glitters  so  with  silver,  gold,  and 
jewels  as  to  dazzle  one's  eyes,  there  is 
a  musical  instrument  made  all  of  glass 
except  the  strings." 

The  next  age,  bringing  its  long 
train  of  political  and  religious  controver- 
sies, was  fitly  ushered  in  by  the  Hamp- 
ton Court  Conference,  which,  having 
been  called  to  reconcile  two  diverging 
ecclesiastical  parties,  ended  by  setting 
them  hopelessly  at  variance.  We 
need  but  allude  in  passing  to  this  ill- 
judged  attempt  at  enforcing  union  by 
royal  dictation.  "  The  Bishops,"  wrote 
Harrington,  who  was  present,  ''said 
His  Majesty  spoke  by  the  power  of 
inspiration.  I  wist  not  what  they 
meant ;  but  the  spirit  was  rather  foul- 
mouthed."  One  good  result  however 
came  from  the  Conference ;  a  sugges- 
tion of  the  Puritan  spokesman  led  to 
the  preparation  of  the  Authorised 
Version  of  the  Bible.  The  change 
from  the  Tudors  to  the  Stuarts  became 
at  once  apparent  in  small  things  as 
well  as  great.  Maladroit  in  every 
way,  James  incurred  much  odium  and 
some  ridicule  by  the  selfishness  with 
which,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  he 
pursued  the  royal  pastime  of  stag-hunt- 
ing at  Hampton  Court,  and  by  his 
rage  against  spectators  of  his  sport. 
The  King,  though  he  rode  constantly 
to  hounds,  was  so  little  of  a  real  sports- 
man that  he  would  take  shots  from 
behind  a  tree  at  the  tame  deer  as  they 
browsed  in  the  shade.  Anne  of  Den- 
mark was  celebrated  by  Ben  Jonson  as 
the  **  Huntress  Queen,"  and  a  curious 
painting  of  her  in  that  character  is 
still  to  be  seen  at  Hampton  Court ;  but 
so  far  was  she  from   being   a    Diana 


Hampton  Court, 


451 


that  on  one  occasion  she  mistook  her 
mark,  and  shot  her  husband's  favour- 
ite hound.  Her  health  broke  down  in 
the  autumn  of  1618,  and  though  on 
Christmas  Day  she  was  able  to  attend 
"  a  whole  sermon  in  the  chamber  next 
Paradise,"  she  took  to  her  bed  not 
long  afterwards,  and  died  in  the  palace 
at  the  beginning  of  March. 

Charles  I.  in  the  earlier  part  of  his 
reign  was  often  at  Hampton  Court, 
sometimes  for  pleasure,  sometimes 
when  the  plague  raged  in  London,  but 
little  happened  to  mark  these  visits. 
He  enriched  the  palace  with  many 
works  of  art ;  when  Henrietta  Maria 
quarrelled  with  him  there  about  her 
household,  the  French  suite  were  ex- 
pelled from  England,  bag  and  baggage ; 
when  the  plague  was  worse  than  usual, 
orders  were  issued  to  forbid  Londoners 
coming  within  ten  miles  of  the  place ; 
Shakespeare's  plays  were  performed  in 
the  Great  Hall  before  the  Court  by 
actors  who  were  the  poet's  contem- 
poraries. Beyond  such  facts  as  these, 
there  is  nothing  to  notice  until  the  eve 
of  the  Civil  War.  The  Grand  Remons- 
trance was  presented  to  Charles  at 
Hampton  Court.  Hither  he  fled  from 
the  tumults  in  the  capital  after  the 
failure  of  his  attempt  to  arrest  the 
Five  Members.  So  little  had  his 
coming  been  expected  that  the  King 
and  Queen,  on  their  arrival,  had  to 
sleep  in  one  room  with  their  three 
eldest  children.  One  more  night 
Charles  spent  here  a  few  weeks  later, 
when  Conducting  Henrietta  from 
Windsor  to  Dover  on  her  departure 
from  England.  At  his  next  visit  in 
August,  1647,  he  came  as  a  prisoner, 
and  remained  three  months  under  a 
very  mild  restraint,  being  suffered  to 
keep  his  old  servants  about  him,  to 
receive  visits  from  many  Royalists,  and 
to  enjoy  the  society  of  his  children, 
who  were  then  at  Sion  House  under 
the  care  of  the  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land. He  played  a  game  in  the  tennis- 
court  on  the  very  day  of  his  escape. 

During  the  Commonwealth  the 
manor  of  Hampton  Court  was  sold  by 
the  Parliament  j  but  the  sale  was  after- 


wards cancelled  on  the  ground  that 
the  house  was  convenient  for  the  re- 
tirement of  persons  employed  in  public 
affairs,  and  a  year  or  two  later  it  had 
passed  into  the  possession  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  who  thenceforth  made  the 
place  one  of  his  principal  residences. 
In  like  manner  the  goods,  furniture, 
and  works  of  art  were  appraised  and 
offered  for  sale.  The  splendid  tapes- 
tries were  valued  at  prices  which  even 
in  the  present  day  would  be  thought 
exorbitant ;  while  the  finest  pictures 
of  the  collection  were  estimated  at 
comparatively  small  sums.  The  famous 
Cartoons  of  Raphael,  which  had  been 
purchased  by  Charles  on  the  recom- 
mendation of  Rubens,  were  set  down 
at  no  more  than  £300.  These,  how- 
ever, with  some  others  of  the  finest 
paintings,  were  withdrawn  from  the 
catalogue  by  order  of  the  Council  of 
State ;  and  at  the  end  of  a  sale  lasting 
nearly  three  years,  several  of  the  best 
tapestries  were  found  to  have  been  ap- 
propriated by  the  Lord  Protector,  who 
even  hung  his  own  bedroom  with 
pieces  representing  the  profane  subject 
of  Vulcan  and  Venus. 

After  the  Restoration  Hampton 
Court  became  again  a  royal  residence. 
There  the  second  Charles  passed  his 
honeymoon,  and  there  he  afterwards 
compelled  his  wife  to  receive  Lady 
Castlemaine.  But  the  fame  of  Wolsey's 
creation  was  now  eclipsed  by  the 
superior  splendour  and  commodious- 
ness  of  Versailles.  When  the  Revolu- 
tion came  William  and  Mary  com- 
plained that,  though  the  air  of  the 
place  was  good,  the  buildings  had  been 
much  neglected,  and  were  wanting  in 
many  of  the  conveniences  of  a  modern 
palace.  Under  the  royal  direction  Sir 
Christopher  Wren  demolished  the  old 
State  Apartments  inhabited  by  Henry 
VIII.,  and  erected  the  long  uniform 
southern  and  eastern  fronts,  towards 
the  Thames  and  the  gardens,  on  a  model 
as  remote  as  possible  from  the  origi- 
nal design.  The  style  adopted  for  the 
new  edifice  was  the  debased  Renais- 
sance then  in  vogue,  which  it  was  no 
easy  task  to  harmonise  even  tolerably 

G  G  2 


452 


Hampton  Court, 


with  the  remaining  Tudor  buildings. 
That  the  result  was  worthy  of  the 
architect's  genius  cannot  be  af- 
firmed, but  allowing  for  the  difficulties 
with  which  he  had  to  contend  and  the 
instructions  by  which  he  was  cramped, 
it  may  be  pronounced  fairly  successful. 
Wren's  elevations  are  imposing  from 
their  extent,  and  the  new  rooms  were 
stately  and  well-proportioned.  Like 
the  old  quadrangles  the  additions  are 
built  of  led  bricks,  but  of  a  lighter 
colour,  and  with  a  larger  use  of  stone 
in  columns  and  dressings.  The  stair- 
cases and  some  of  the  principal  cham- 
bers were  decorated  with  ungraceful 
and  gaudy  frescoes  by  Verrio  and  his 
assistant  Laguerre, — names  which  re- 
call Pope's  couplet : 

On  painted  ceilings  you  devoutly  stare, 
Wliere  sprawl  the  Saints    of    Verrio    or 
Laguerre. 

More  happily  the  delicate  chisel  of 
Grinling  Gibbons  was  employed  to 
execute  the  carvings.  New  gardens  of 
spacious  extent  were  laid  out,  adorned 
with  fountains  and  provided  with 
exquisite  screens  of  wrought  iron.  An 
old  separate  building,  called  the  Water 
Gallery,  was  fitted  up  for  the  Queen's 
use  till  the  new  palace  should  be  com- 
plete, and  was  filled  with  a  series  of 
portraits  by  Kneller,  known  as  the 
Hampton  Court  Beauties,  which,  after 
the  Queen's  death  and  the  demolition 
of  the  Water  Gallery,  were  removed 
to  the  main  edifice,  and  are  now  in  the 
room  called  King  William's  Presence 
Chamber.  Also  to  gratify  the  Queen 
an  orangery  was  formed,  choice  exotics 
were  collected,  and  hothouses  were 
built  for  their  reception.  When  he 
lost  her  William  forsook  the  palace  for 
a  time,  and  did  not  return  till  White- 
hall was  destroyed  by  fire,  after  which 
further  improvements  were  made  in 
the  gardens,  and  the  famous  maze  was 
formed.  The  designer,  we  are  told, 
condemned  this  labyrinth  for  having 
only  four  stops,  whereas  he  had  given 
a  plan  for  one  with  twenty.  The 
seclusion  of  Hampton  Court  suited 
the  taste  of  the  moody  Dutch  King, 
and  aided  him  to  bear  the  pain  of  exile 


from  his  favourite  retreat  in  the  sandy 
plain  of  Guelders.  He  posted  thither, 
on  kis  last  return  from  the  Hague, 
without  touching  London,  and  it  was 
while  hunting  there  a  few  weeks  later 
that  he  met  with  the  fall  which  caused 
his  death. 

Very  early  in  the  eighteenth  century 
the  palace  and  gardens  became  a 
popular  resort  of  holiday-makers  from. 
London,  who  came  down  by  road  or 
river  to  see  all  they  could,  and  to  dine 
at  the  Toy,  a  famous  hostelry  which 
stood  just  without  the  western  entrance, 
on  the  side  opposite  the  site  now  occu- 
pied by  the  Mitre  Hotel.  Who  does 
not  know  that  the  Rape  of  the  Lock 
was  written  to  heal  a  breach  which 
had  arisen  between  two  families  out  of 
an  incident  that  had  taken  place 
during  an  excursion  of  this  kind  ? 
We  are  almost  ashamed  to  quote,  and 
yet  we  cannot  refrain  from  quoting, 
the  well-remembered  lines : 

Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crowned 
with  flowers, 

Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his 
rising  towers, 

There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 

Which  from  the  neighb'ring  Hampton 
takes  its  name. 

Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  fore- 
doom 

Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home  ; 

Here  thou  great  Anna  !  whom  three  realms 
obey, 

Dost  sometimes  counsel  take, — and  some- 
times tea. 

The  party  had  come  by  water  : 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating 

tides : 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  water  die  ; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently 

play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 

After  dinner  the  friends  sat  down  to 
a  game  of  ombre,  during  which  coffee 
was  brought  in  ;  then  came  the 
felonious  assault  and  the  catastrophe 
which  produced  the  rupture  : 

The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dis- 
sever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever  I 


Hampton  Court. 


453 


Perhaps  if  one  were  asked  to  men- 
tion the  liveliest  period  in  the  annals 
of  Hampton  Court,  we  should  fix  on  a 
summer  or  two  of  the  dullest  reign  in 
English  history.  The  first  royal  visit 
after  the  coming  of  the  Guelphs  gave 
indeed  little  promise  of  gaiety.  Ori- 
ginally George  I.,  like  William  III., 
preferred  the  palace  as  a  retreat  where 
he  could  escape  from  the  unwelcome 
gaze  of  his  subjects,  and  enjoy  life 
after  his  own  fashion  with  his  foreign 
favourites.  Thither  accordingly  he 
retired  shortly  after  his  arrival  from 
Germany.  The  places  formerly  occu- 
pied by  Portland  and  Albemarle  were 
now  more  than  filled  by  Mesdames 
Schulenberg  and  Kielmansegge,  whom 
in  course  of  time  their  lover  created 
respectively  Duchess  of  Kendal  and 
Countess  of  Darlington.  Of  these 
two  elderly,  ill-favoured  personages, 
the  Duchess,  extremely  tall  and  spare 
of  figure,  became  known  to  our  rude 
forefathers  as  the  Maypole,  while  the 
Countess,  being,  as  Thackeray  says,  a 
large-sized  noblewoman,  was,  with 
equal  irreverence,  denominated  the  Ele- 
phant and  Castle.  There  is  a  legend 
that  the  walk  under  the  wall  of  the 
tilt-yard  near  the  palace  gate,  owes 
its  name  to  these  two  ladies.  Tradition 
tells  that  they  used  to  pace  up  and 
down  together  beneath  the  elms  and 
chestnuts  there,  while  awaiting  the 
King's  return  from  exercise,  and  that 
it  was  hence  called  Frow  Walk,  after- 
wards corrupted  into  Frog  Walk,  the 
name  which  it  bears  to  the  present 
day.  George  would  sit  for  hours  with 
his  pipe,  watching  this  pair  cut  out 
figures  in  paper  for  his  diversion,  and 
would  clap  his  hands  with  a  shout  of 
laughter  whenever  the  Schulenberg 
succeeded  in  producing  a  recognisable 
likeness  of  some  courtier  or  officer  of 
State.  A.t  the  end  of  the  season  his 
sacred  Majesty  returned  to  London  by 
water,  and  only  on  these  occasions  did 
he  care  to  appear  in  any  state.  Six 
footmen  preceded  his  sedan  to  the 
river-side ;  six  yeomen  of  the  guard 
followed  ;  then  came  the  ruddled  mis- 
tresses in   chairs   borne  by   servants 


wearing  the  royal  livery.  The  suite 
attended,  and  the  party  embarked  in 
barges  spread  with  crimson  cloths, 
while  from  an  accompanying  boat 
French  horns  and  clarionets  filled  the 
air  with  music. 

But  the  German  Elector,  who  had 
allowed  nine  months  to  pass  before  he 
took  possession  of  his  new  throne,  was 
as  eager  to  return  to  Herrenhausen  as 
ever  William  of  Orange  had  been  to 
revisit  his  beloved  Loo.  When  he  set 
out  for  Hanover  in  the  summer  of 
1716,  he  appointed  his  son  guardian  of 
the  realm  and  permitted  him  to  reside 
at  Hampton  Court.  The  Prince  and 
Princess  took  up  their  abode  in  the 
State  Kooms  recently  inhabited  by 
Queen  Anne,  the  ceiling  of  whose  bed- 
chamber had  just  been  painted  by 
Thornhill,  and  there  strove  by  a  dis- 
play of  graciousness  and  hospitality  to 
efface  the  disgust  which  the  King's 
boorish  behaviour  had  already  excited. 
The  most  shining  wits  and  beauties  of 
that  time  were  assembled  at  the  new 
Court.  There  sparkled  Philip  Dormer, 
Lord  Stanhope,  afterwards  the  cele- 
brated Earl  of  Chesterfield,  who  a  year 
before  had  been  appointed  to  a  post 
about  the  Prince's  person,  and  who  at 
the  age  of  twenty  was  acknowledged 
to  be  the  most  accomplished  gentleman 
of  his  day.  Thither  also  came  Carr 
Lord  Hervey,  elder  brother  of  the 
better  known  John  Lord  Hervey,  and 
reckoned,  as  Horace  Walpole  reports, 
to  have  had  superior  parts.  There  too 
were  to  be  seen  Lord  Scarborough, 
praised  by  Pope,  and  Marlborough's 
brother  Charles,  not  yet  the  tedious 
and  foppish  General  Churchill  at  whom 
the  next  generation  laughed,  but  a 
gallant  Colonel,  with  laurels  still  fresh, 
and  "  smart  in  repartee."  The  married 
ladies  included  Lady  Walpole,  wife  of 
Sir  Robert,  and  the  Princess's  two 
bedchamber- women,  Mrs.  Selwyn, 
mother  of  the  witty  George,  and  the 
much  more  important  Mrs.  Howard. 
It  was  at  Hampton  Court  that  Hen- 
rietta Howard,  afterwards  Countess  of 
Suffolk,  the  friend  and  correspondent 
of  Swift,   Pope,   and   Gay,   was  first 


434 


Hampton  Court, 


recognised  as  the  established  mistress 
of  the  second  George.  This  handsome, 
winning,  sensible  person  helped  to 
make  the  palace  as  pleasant  as  the 
German  Frows  had  made  it  odious. 
The  easy  morality  of  the  age  could 
find  only  one  fault  in  her : 

When  all  the  world  conspires  to  praise  her, 
The  woman's  deaf,  and  does  not  hear. 

But  more  attractive  to  modern  taste 
than    these    older    dames    were    the 
charming       maids  -  of  -  honour      who 
mingled  with  them  in  the  parlour  of 
the  lady-in-waiting.     Foremost  among 
these  smiled  the  lovely,  lively  Mary 
Bellenden,  whom  her  contemporaries 
pronounced  the  most  perfect  creature 
they  had   ever  known.     She  it   was 
who,   with   arms    folded    before  her, 
bade  the  amorous   Prince   stand  off, 
and  when  he  thought  to  tempt  her  by 
counting  his  money  at  her  side,  tossed 
the  guineas  on  the  floor,  and  springing 
away  left    his    Royal    Highness    to 
gather  them  up  alone.     Hardly  second 
to  the  Bellenden  was  her  companion, 
the  famous  Molly  Lepell,  who  seems 
after  all   to  have  made  a  more  per- 
manent    impression.      After     being 
celebrated  by  Chesterfield  and  all  the 
poets    of    her    youth,  she   was  com- 
plimented  by  Yoltaire  in    the   only 
English  verses  now  extant  from  his 
pen,  and  to  her  in  1762  were  dedicated 
the  Anecdotes  of  Painting, 

The  season  was  filled  with  a  varied 
round  of  amusements  in  which  all 
these  people  took  part.  There  were 
boating  excursions,  informal  dinners, 
strolls  in  the  gardens,  games  of  bowls, 
flirtations  (then  called  "  frizelations  '*) 
in  shady  retreats,  and  in  the  evenings 
cards  or  music,  with  pleasant  supper- 
parties  in  Mrs.  Howard's  apartments 
which  were  known  to  her  friends  as 
the  Swiss  Cantons.  The  lovers  of 
scandal  noted  afterwards  that  about 
this  time  Lady  Walpole  seemed  too 
intimate  with  my  Lord  Carr,  and 
that  Horace  Walpole,  who  was  born 
next  year,  bore  far  more  resemblance 
to  the  puny  and  sickly  race  of  Hervey 
than  he  did  to  the  laurly  and  jovial 


Prime    Minister.      Much     the    same 
society   met   again   in  the   following 
summer,  but  with  the  difference  that 
the  old  King  was  there  to  damp  their 
enjoyment.     Pope,  in  an  often  quoted 
letter  dated  September  1717,  describes 
a    visit    he    had    recently    paid    to 
Hampton  Court.     **  Mrs.  Bellenden," 
he  says,    "and  Mrs.  Lepell  took  me 
into     protection,     contrary    to     the 
laws  against  harbouring  papists,  and 
gave  me  a  dinner,  with  something  1 
liked  better,  an  opportunity  of  con- 
versing with  Mrs.  Howard."     But  the 
King's   presence  had    altered    every- 
thing.    The  maids-of-honour  declared 
that  the  monotony  of  their  lives  was 
unendurable.    "  Aiid  as  a  proof  of  it," 
adds  the  writer,  "  I  need  only  tell  you 
that    Miss    Lepell  walked    with   me 
three  or  four  hours  by  moonlight,  and 
we  met  no  creature  of  any  quality  but 
the  King,  who  gave  audience  to  the 
Vice-Chamberlain,  all  alone,  under  the 
garden- wall."      In    1718   the  jealous 
monarch  had  driven  away  his  son  and 
cette   diabhsse  Madame   la  Frincesse, 
who    held    an    opposition    Court    at 
Richmond,  while  His  Majesty,  resolute 
for  once  to  be   gay,  revived  the  old 
theatre  in  the   Great  Hall,  bringing 
down  Colley  Cibber  and  his  company 
to   perform    Henry    VJIL  and    other 
plays  before  mixed  audiences  of  invited 
guests.     The  differences  between  the 
rival  Courts,  however,  were  composed 
soon    enough     to     enable     the     fair 
Bellenden     and     Lepell     to    revisit 
Hampton  before   the  former  wedded 
the  heir   to  the  dukedom  of  Argyle, 
and  the  latter.  Pope's  especial  favourite, 
became  the  wife  of  the  poet's  particular 
aversion,  John   Lord   Hervey.     Both 
ladies  cherished  a  fond  recollection  of 
happy  days  spent  at  Hampton  Court. 
"  I   wish    we  were  all  in  the  Swiss 
Cantons  again,"  writes  Mrs.  CampbeU 
to  Mrs.  Howard ;  and  some  years  later 
Lady   Hervey,   addressing  •  the   same 
correspondent,  says  :  "I  really  believe 
a  frizelation  would  be  a  surer  means 
of    restoring    my    spirits    than    the 
exercise  and  hartshorn  I   now  make 
use  of.     I  do  not  suppose  that  name 


Hampton  Court. 


455 


still  exists  ;  but  pray  let  me  know  if 
the  thing  itself  does,  or  if  they  meet  in 
the  same  cheerful  manner  to  sup  as 
formerly.  Are  ballads  and  epigrams 
the  consequence  of  those  meetings'?  " 

The  accounts  of  Hampton  Court 
under  George  II.  offer  pictures  much 
less  agreeable.  We  see  "  The  Queen's 
chaplain  mumbling  through  his  morn- 
ing office  in  the  so-called  private  chapel, 
under  the  picture  of  the  great  Yenus, 
with  the  door  opened  into  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber,  where  the  Queen  is 
dressing,  talking  scandal  to  Lord 
Hervey,  or  uttering  sneers  at  Mrs. 
Howard,  who  is  kneeling  with  the 
basin  at  her  mistress's  side."  We  see 
the  King  come  into  the  Gallery  in  the 
morning  when  the  Queen  is  drinking 
chocolate,  and  abuse  her  for  being 
always  stuffing ;  and  then  turn  to  the 
other  members  of  his  family  and 
vent  the  rest  of  his  ill- humour  on 
them,  scolding  Princess  Amelia  for 
not  hearing  him,  Princess  Caroline  for 
being  so  fat,  and  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland  for  standing  awkwardly. 
We  see  the  Princess  of  Wales,  while 
hourly  expecting  her  confinement, 
hurried  secretly  down  stairs  by  her 
worthless  husband  Frederick,  forced 
into  a  coach,  though  on  the  rack  with 
pain,  and  driven  off  to  London  to  be 
delivered  at  St.  James's.  Of  the 
general  tenor  of  Court  life  in  this 
reign  we  have  a  cabinet  picture  in  a 
letter  by  Lord  Hervey  : 

I  will  not  trouble  you  with  any  account 
of  our  occupations  at  Hampton  Court.  No 
mill-horse  ever  went  in  a  more  con- 
stant track  or  a  more  unchanging  circle  ; 
so  that  by  the  assistance  of  an  al- 
manac for  the  day  of  the  week,  and  a 
watch  for  the  hour  of  the  day,  you  may 
inform  yourself  fully,  without  any  other 
intelligence  but  your  memory,  of  every 
tnmsaction  within  the  verge  of  the  Court. 
Walking,  chaises,  levees,  and  audiences  fill 
the  morning  ;  at  night,  the  King  plays  at 
commerce  or  backganurion,  and  the  Queen 
at  quadrille,  where  poor  Lady  Charlotte 
runs  her  usual  nightly  gauntlet — the 
Queen  pulling  lier  hood,  Mr.  Schutz  sput- 
tering in  her  face,  and  the  Princess  Royal 


rapping  her  knuckles,  all  at  a  time 

The  Duke  of  Grafton  takes  his  nightly 


opiate  of  lottery,  and  sleeps  as  usual  be- 
tween the  Princesses  Amelia  and  Carolina ; 
Lord  Grantham  strolls  from  room  to  room 
(as  Dryden  says),  "  Like  some  discontented 
ghost  that  oft  appears,  and  is  forbid  to 
speak,"  and  stirs  himself  about  as  people 
stir  a  fire,  not  with  any  design,  but  in  hopes 
to  make  it  bum  brisker  ;  which  his  lordship 
constantly  does  to  no  purpose,  and  yet 
tries  as  constantly  as  if  it  had  ever  once 
succeeded.  At  last  the  King  comes  up, 
the  pool  finishes,  and  every  one  has  their 
dismission. 

George  II.  made  some  alterations  in 
the  fabric  of  the  palace,  completing 
and  decorating  some  of  Wren's  new 
building  which  had  been  left  unfinished 
at  the  death  of  William  III.  The 
works  were  executed  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Kent,  a  poor  architect,  who 
unfortunately  was  also  commissioned 
to  rebuild  part  of  the  old  Clock  Court, 
a  task  which  he  performed  in  a  most 
unsatisfactory  manner.  After  the 
death  of  Queen  Caroline,  George  II. 
was  little  at  Hampton  Court,  though 
now  and  then  he  would  drive  down  to 
spend  the  day,  accompanied  by  Lady 
Yarmouth  and  a  small  suite.  "The 
royal  party,"  says  Walpole,  "went  in 
coaches  and  six  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  with  heavy  horse-guards  kicking 
up  the  dust  before  them,  dined,  walked 
an  hour  in  the  garden,  returned  in  the 
same  dusty  parade,  and  his  Majesty 
fancied  himself  the  most  gallant  and 
lively  prince  in  Europe."  At  other 
times  the  palace  was  open  to  the 
inspection  of  visitors  pretty  much  as 
the  State  Apartments  at  Windsor  are 
now.  Walpole  has  a  story  that  the 
Miss  Gunnings  in  the  first  flush  of 
their  tiiumph,  when  crowds  used  to 
follow  them  in  the  streets,  went  to 
see  Hampton  Court,  and  hearing  the 
housekeeper  say  to  another  company 
at  the  door  of  the  Beauty  Room, 
"  This  way,  ladies,  here  are  the  Beau- 
ties," flew  into  a  passion,  saying  that 
they  came  to  see  the  palace,  not  to  be 
shown  as  a  sight  themselves. 

From  the  accession  of  George  III. 
Hampton  Court  finally  ceased  to  be  a 
residence  of  the  sovereign.  The  State 
Apartments  were  dismantled  and  even 


456 


Hampton  Court. 


Raphael's  Cartoons,  which    had  hung 
for  nearly  seventy  years   in  the  gal- 
lery built  expressly  for  them  by  Wren, 
were   removed,    first   to    Buckingham 
House,   afterwards   to   Windsor,    and 
were    not    returned   till    1808.      The 
gardens,    however,    were    suffered   to 
continue  under  the  care  of  the  famous 
Capability  Brown,    who  had  been  ap- 
pointed Royal  Gardener  at  Hampton 
Court  in  1750,  and  to  whom  is  prob- 
ably due  the  planting  in  1769  of  the 
famous  vine  which  has  so  long  been 
one  of  the  sights  of  Hampton  Court. 
It  is  said  that  the  young   King  had 
conceived  an  invincible  repugnance  to 
the  place  from  his  ears  having  been 
once  boxed  there  by  his  choleric  grand- 
father.     At  any  rate,  he  abandoned 
it  altogether,  and  the  whole  building, 
with  the  exception  of  the  State  Rooms, 
was  gradually  divided  into  suites  of 
apartments  allotted  by  royal  favour  to 
private    persons.      In    1776    Samuel 
Johnson   applied  to  the  Lord   Cham- 
berlain  for  one   of   these  suites,  and 
of    course  met  with  a   refusal.     The 
rooms   were  granted,   not   to  men  of 
genius  and  literature,  but  to  applicants 
who     had  interest  at  Court  or  some 
claim  on  the  official  charged  with  the 
distribution  of  them.     Sometimes  the 
recipients  of  the  King's  bounty  left 
their    lodgings    untenanted    for    long 
periods,  or  even  assumed  the  right  of 
sub-letting  them  to  others,  and  strin- 
gent   regulations    had    to    be    made 
against   such   malpractices.      At    the 


end  of  the  century  the  palace  enjoyed 
a  transient  glimmer  of  royalty  from 
the  presence  of  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
who,  driven  from  the  Netherlands  by 
the  Revolution,  occupied  from  1793  to 
1813  the  vacated  abode  of  English 
monarchy.  In  later  days,  residences 
in  the  precincts  have  been  occasionally 
given  to  persons  not  connected  with 
noble  families.  Thus  Michael  Faraday, 
in  1858,  was  granted  the  Crown  house 
on  the  Green,  which  now  bears  his 
name,  and  which  he  occupied  till  his 
death  in  1867. 

In  1865,  the  superb  iron  screens  in 
the  gardens,  together  with  much  fur- 
niture and  tapestry  from  the  palace, 
were  removed  to  the  South  Kensington 
Museum.  At  the  same  time  the  palace 
finally  Igst  the  Cartoons,  these  being 
transferred  to  the  same  institution, 
where  despite  remonstrance  it  appears 
to  have  been  decided  as  we  write  that 
they  are  to  remain. 

Here  we  close  this  hasty  sketch, 
which  can  necessarily  give  but  an  im- 
perfect idea  of  the  patient  industry, 
the  wide  research,  and  the  various 
interest  of  Mr.  Law's  volumes.  We 
can  only  hope  that  it  may  at  least 
induce  such  of  our  readers  as  have  not 
yet  done  so  to  study  them  at  first 
hand.  The  work  has  been  clearly  a 
labour  of  love ;  and  we  are  pleased  to 
think  it  likely  to  meet  with  a  better 
reward  than  is  perhaps  the  common 
lot  of  such  labours. 


457 


A   GOOD    WORD    FOR   THE   SPARROW. 


I  HAVE  lived  through  three  or  four 
mad-dog  panics.  I  remember  a  gentle- 
man's housekeeper  being  bitten  by  a 
pampered  pet  dog  which  she  was  try- 
ing to  make  eat  contrary  to  its  in- 
clination, persuading  herself  that  the 
dog  was  mad  (it  was  the  time  of  one 
of  these  panics),  becoming  very  ill, 
going  to  bed,  persuading  herself  that 
she  was  suffering  from  hydrophobia, 
and  barking  accordingly  (it  was  the 
correct  thing  to  do  in  the  circum- 
stances), and  yet  getting  well  when 
the  doctor  (whom  I  knew)  succeeded 
in  persuading  her  that  the  dog  might 
not  have  been  mad  after  all.  She 
lived  for  years  afterwards.  I  remem- 
ber a  very  valuable  pointer  being  shot 
because  it  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
bitten  by  a  dog  reputed  to  be  mad, 
which  had  snapped  at  a  female  who 
menaced  it  as  an  intruder  with  a  stick, 
and  in  passing  the  pointer  in  its  effort 
to  escape  just  rased  the  skin  with  its 
teeth.  I  remember  being  told  that 
two  pigs  said  to  have  been  bitten  by 
one  of  these  dogs-with-ill-names  went 
mad,  "  barked  like  dogs,"  and  were 
slain.  Nay,  I  remember  hearing  that 
the  young  onions  in  a  bed  which  was 
crossed  by  the  said  unlucky  dog  as  it 
levanted  after  biting  the  pigs,  went 
mad  too,  and  showed  it  by  jumping 
out  of  their  places  in  the  bed  ! — ^I 
never  heard  what  their  roots  had  to 
say  to  it — and  departing  this  life  in 
consequence,  as  sane  onions  would  not 
have  done.  Nay,  I  even  heard, — it 
was  in  the  same  county  where  I  used 
to  hear  an  unsuccessful  attempt  had 
been  made  to  get  the  moon  out  of  the 
water  wherein  she  had  been  clearly 
seen  by  credible  deponents — that  the 
same  dog  bit  a  wheelbarrow  in  pass- 
ing, and  that  it  was  thought  safer  to 
chain  the  wheelbarrow  up.  But  that, 
I  think,  must  have  been  of  the  nature 


of  making  fun  of  some  person  or  per- 
sons not  named.  But  first  and  last,  I 
think  I  have  known  of  fifty  to  eighty 
dogs  slain  in  the  course  of  these 
panics,  simply  because  they  had  got 
the  bad  name  of  having  possibly  been 
bitten  by  a  possibly  mad  dog.  And  I 
am  afraid  my  dear  old  familiar  friend, 
the  sparrow,  has  got  a  like  bad  name, — 
perhaps  no  more  deserved  than  nine- 
teen out  of  the  twenty  ill  names  those 
poor  unlucky  dogs  had  got. 

Wo  are  told  that  he  is  a  thief,  a 
burglar,  and  a  bully ;  that  he  takes 
action  of  ejectment  without  being 
backed  by  a  legal  writ ;  that  he  dis- 
possesses the  harmless  martin  of  the 
snug  mud  domicile  he  has  built  for 
himself  and  partner ;  that  he  drives 
away  the  softer-billed  birds,  and  ban- 
ishes the  weaker  ones ;  that  he  dam- 
ages the  flower-seeds,  and  utterly 
ravages  the  labours  of  the  kitchen- 
gardener;  that  he  is  such  a  ruffian 
that  no  bird  of  his  own  size  dare 
attack  him.  Nay,  even  his  personal 
looks,  mien,  and  gestures  show  what  a 
mean  rascal  he  is ;  he  is  ugly  and  ill- 
plumaged,  his  movements  are  **  grace- 
less, heavy  motions,"  and  his  note  is  a 
**  monotonous  chirp." 

I  wonder  who  is  responsible  for  the 
charge  of  robinicide  which  hangs  over 
the  sparrow's  head  like  a  black  fog 
over  a  smoky  city.  It  is  true  he  is 
made  to  vaunt  himself  of  the  deed  ; 
but  I  think,  while  it  accounts  for  one 
of  the  divers  ill  names  credited  to 
him,  still  it  must  be  looked  upon  as  at 
least,  what  the  Scottish  Law  Courts 
call.  Not  Proven.  For,  waiving  the 
little  difficulty  of  the  bow  and  arrow, 
having  still,  and  having  had  for  well 
on  to  threescore  years  and  ten,  a  very 
large  and  almost  as  intimate  an  ac- 
quaintance with  both  robins  and  spar- 
rows, I  have  never  once  seen  the  latter 


458 


A  Good  Word  for  the  Sparrow. 


act  as  the  aggressor  in  any  quarrel 
between  the  two  birds  ;  but  I  have 
seen  the  robin  attack  the  sparrow  a 
hundred  times,  and  again  a  hundred, 
and  the  latter  turn  tail, — rather  ig- 
nominiously  moreover,  if  the  weights 
of  the  two  parties  be  taken  into 
account.  Nay,  even  the  meek,  apolo- 
getic cuddy,  or  hedge-sparrow,  holds  its 
own  if  its  house-brother  so  far  forgets 
the  dictates  of  prudence  as  to  try  and 
act  the  bully.  And  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  in  all  my  acquaintance  with 
birds  driven  by  stress  of  weather,  or 
induced  by  the  abundant  and  easily 
obtained  supplies  of  food  at  my  study 
window  or  on  the  terrace  below  my 
dining-room  window,  I  have  never 
seen  my  much-abused  friend  attempt 
to  molest  the  stray  chaffinch,  larger 
tits,  or  any  other  bird  less,  or  less 
powerfully  armed  than  himself.  Frank- 
ly, 1  do  not  hold  with  the  doctrine  that 
dubs  him  a  bully.  He  is  not  half  nor  a 
quarter  so  much  of  a  bully  as  the 
robin,  and  as  regards  the  nuthatch, 
why,  it  is  Oliver  Twist  matched 
against  the  Beadle.  No  doubt  his 
motto,  like  that  of  other  nature-led 
creatures,  is  practically,  **  Every  one 
for  himself  and  God  for  us  all ; "  but 
I  have  never  seen  him  act  as  if  it 
was,  "  Nae  halves  or  quarters  !  Haill 
o'  my  ain." 

Certainly  he  is  as  independent  a 
fellow  as  any  bird  I  know.  I  see 
him  sometimes  in  long-continued  snow 
and  persistent  hard  weather,  on  my 
terrace,  coming  and  going,  in  parties 
of  half-a-dozen,  half-a-score,  fifteen,  or 
twenty.  This  year,  though  the  snow 
was  deep  and  the  thermometer  low,  I 
have  seldom  seen  more  than  six  or 
eight  in  all.  No  doubt  the  ready 
explanation  is  that  the  truculent  spar- 
row has  driven  him  away.  Still,  that 
sounds  strange;  he  can't  very  well 
have  driven  himself  away  !  But  he 
is  not  there  in  his  wonted  numbers, 
and  he  has  not  been  in  the  ivy  above, 
during  the  past  nesting-season,  in  his 
wonted  numbers ;  though  there  has 
been  no  sparrow-persecution  here,  nor 
anything   that  I  know  of    calculated 


to  lessen  their  numbers.  This  seems 
to  me  to  betoken  not  exactly  that  the 
sparrows  are  the  active  agents  in  the 
lessening  of  the  numbers  of  small 
birds,  but  rather  that  they  themselves 
are  subject  to  the  same  decimating 
law  as  the  house-martin,  the  beam-bird 
or  spotted  flycatcher,  the  white-throat, 
and  the  other  little  birds  alleged  nowa- 
days to  be  the  victims  of  the  sparrow's 
high-handed  behaviour  and  injurious 
usage. 

But  this  is  a  digression.  What  I 
was  saying  was  that  the  sparrow  is  an 
independent  sort  of  fellow.  One  day, 
not  far  back,  when  putting  down  a 
few  meat-bones,  not  very  closely 
picked,  had  influenced  the  shivering 
and  not  too  ravenous  disposition  of 
a  pair  of  starlings  for  the  customary 
bread-crumbs  so  far  as  to  multiply 
the  one  pair  by  four,  in  flew  the  viva- 
cious sparrows  among  the  hungry  lot, 
just  as  friendly  as  the  members  of  a 
well-to-do  club.  They  took  no  parti- 
cular notice  of  the  starlings,  and  the 
starlings  returned  the  compliment. 
I  did  not  even  see  a  single  nod  ex- 
changed. There  seemed  to  me  just 
the  same  sorb  of  tacit  understanding 
as  exists  among  the  occupants  of  the 
same  table  in  a  refreshment-room  at  a 
duly  frequented  railway-station.  Put 
into  our  language,  it  would  be  :  "  Ah, 
you  are  hungry  as  well  as  we.  All 
right ;  pitch  in  ;  there's  plenty  for  all 
of  us.'*  As  to  hustling,  pushing, 
pecking,  driving  away,  I  see  ten  times 
more  of  the  real  thing  among  my 
chickens  and  my  pigeons  when  the 
food  is  just  newly  thrown  down  to 
them,  than  among  the  hungry  birds  I 
have  fed  all  these  years  at  my  win- 
dow. 

I  can  fancy  some  one  saying  to  me, 
with  that  peculiar  and  entirely  pleas- 
ant tone  and  look  adopted  by  the 
friend  who  intends  to  **  shut  you  up  " 
with  his  coming  remark :  "  Ay,  but 
how  about  those  partitioned  boxes  you 
put  up  in  the  ivy  for  the  accommodei- 
tion  of  the  starlings,  some  of  which 
have  been  piratically  appropriated  by 
the    sparrows ;    a    proceeding    which 


A  Good  Word  for  the  Sparrow. 


459 


leads,  as  you  admit,  to  a  good  deal  of 
*  differing '  and  bickering  between  the 
sparrows  and  the  starlings  when  nests 
and  eggs  are  about  %  "  Well,  I  won- 
der, if  it  had  so  happened  that  instead 
of  thinking  a  little  about  the  sparrows 
as  well  as  the  starlings  when  those 
boxes  were  put  up,  I  had  thought  en- 
tirely about  the  sparrows  and  not  at 
all  about  the  starlings  and  their  little 
wants  and  comforts,  whether  it  would 
have  occurred  to  my  friend,  who  is 
taking  now  **my  contrary  part," 
to  charge  the  occupying  starlings  with 
being  the  aggressors  and  usurping 
plunderers.  According  to  the  univer- 
sal bird-law, — the  law  of  nature,  in 
fact — the  one  species  of  bird  has  just 
as  much  right  to  those  convenient 
apartments  as  the  other.  Even  if  I 
could  have  posted  notices  in  "mono- 
tonous sparrow-chatter  "  and  mocking- 
bird starling  lingo,  "  These  boxes  are 
for  the  exclusive  use  of  the  starlings," 
or  vice  verady  I  could  not  thereby  have 
annulled  bird-law  any  more  than  King 
Canute  could  abrogate  tide-law. 

But  this  is  what  sentimental  writers 
and  observers  (most  fallaciously  so- 
called)  habitually  ignore.  From  the 
vituperations  lavished  upon  him  the 
sparrow  must  be  as  systematic  and  as 
deliberate  a  scoundrel  as  the  scientific 
burglar  of  to-day,  and  with  precisely 
the  same  amount  of  active  conscience. 
What  he  does  is  not  only  done  too 
effectually  and  well,  but  it  is  done 
through  want  of  principle,  out  of  mere 
wickedness,  regardless  of  the  right, 
even  unfeelingly  or  brutally.  That  is 
really  what  a  great  deal  of  the  clap- 
trap about  the  sparrow  in  his  deal- 
ings with  other  small  birds  comes  to, 
if  one  takes  the  trouble  to  analyse 
it.  He  is  not  only  a  bully,  an  op- 
pressor, a  plunderer  or  usurper ;  but  he 
knows  he  is,  and  continues  to  be  so  in 
spite  of  his  conscience,  and  in  fact 
revels  in  his  own  heartlessness. 

But,  for  my  own  part,  while  I  enter- 
tain somewhat  grave  doubts  as  to  the 
recognition  among  birds  generally  of 
the  dictates  of  morality,  or  any  delicate 
perception  of  the  difference  between 


right  and  wrong,  and  of  the  nice  dis- 
tinction to  be  drawn  between  meum 
and  tuum,  I  own  to  a  very  great  doubt 
whether  the  sparrow  ought  to  be  rele- 
gated to  the  "criminal  classes"  any 
more  than  the  robin,  the  bunting,  the 
chaffinch,  the  starling,  the  hedge- 
sparrow,  or  any  other  of  the  birds  he 
is  supposed  to  be  injurious  to — even  the 
pathetically  pictured  martin  itself.  If 
either  of  these  birds, — or  any  other 
birds  whatsoever  in  fact — finds  a  site 
suitable  for  its  nest,  it  annexes  it 
forthwith,  whatever  and  wherever  it 
may  be,  and  maintains  it  unless  dis- 
possessed by  superior  force.  Thus,  in 
the  way  of  illustration  merely,  the 
beam-bird,  or  ordinary  fly-catcher,  has 
not  only  built  its  nest  in  the  ivy  almost 
by  prescription  sacred  to  sparrows  and 
starlings  and  rarely  occupied  by  less 
than  twenty  nests  of  the  two  species, 
but  has,  once  at  least,  placed  its  nest 
in  one  of  the  compartments  of  my 
partitioned  boxes  fixed  up  in  the  midst 
of  the  said  ivy.  Nay,  only  last  year 
I  saw  the  nest  of  a  pair  of  these  birds 
in  a  sort  of  way-side  private  letter-box, 
into  which  it  was  customary  to  drop 
newspapers,  notices,  and  matters  of 
that  kind.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  the 
owner  of  the  quasi-pillar-post  in  ques- 
tion, who  showed  me  the  nest,  did  not 
accuse  the  small  intruders  of  burglar- 
ious, usurping,  or  even  larcenous  dis- 
positions or  intentions.  Equally  strange 
too  it  is  that,  although  the  shieldrake, 
the  stockdove,  and  the  puffin  often, 
and  quite  as  villainously  as  ever  spar- 
row with  a  martin's  nest,  dispossess 
the  poor  inoffensive  rabbit,  without 
even  a  beak  or  claws  to  defend  himself 
with,  of  his  laboriously  grubbed-out 
burrows,  just  simply  to  place  their 
nests, — at  least,  their  eggs  (or  egg) — 
therein,  no  one  seems  inclined  to  make 
■moan  for  poor  bunny  or  affix  hard 
names  to  his  plunderers.  That  treat- 
ment is  reserved  for  the  sparrow.  In- 
deed, I  should  like  to  send  one  or  two  of 
the  most  virulent  among  the  sparrow's 
backbiters  and  the  most  pathetic  re- 
tailers of  the  story  of  his  evil  doings 
to  the  touchlDg  vignette  on  p.  365, 


460 


A  Good   Word  for  the  Sparrow. 


Vol.  III.,  of  YarrelFs  British  Birds, 
wherein  an  inoffensive  rabbit  is  por- 
trayed sitting  up  in  the  attitude  of  a 
little  dog  taught  to  beg,  forepaws  held 
out  in  suppliant-wise  to  a  puffin  with 
menacing  beak  and  extra-hyperpas- 
serine  impudence,whose  mate  is  actually 
winking  (at  least  the  picture  makes  it 
look  so)  as  it  occupies  the  entrance  of 
the  burrow  her  mate  so  unceremoniously 
declines  to  cede  to  its  rightful  owner. 
And  this  is  the  accompanying  letter- 
press :  "Rabbit-warrens  are  not  un- 
frequent  on  our  coasts,  and  where  this 
happens,  the  puffins  often  contend 
with  the  rabbits  for  the  possession  of 
some  of  the  burrows."  Oh,  wicked 
puffins !  to  reduce  yourselves  thus  to 
the  level  of  the  thieving,  violent, 
burglarious,  rightful  -  owner  -  evicting, 
caitiff  sparrow  ! 

Indeed,  if  we  make  our  reference  to 
common  sense  and  ordinary  observation, 
— I  don't  mean  "observation"  of  the 
amateur  or  popular  description — I 
doubt  very  much  if,  within  certain 
limits  to  be  named  presently,  any  of 
the  standard  allegations  to  the  dis- 
credit of  the  sparrow,  whether  senti- 
mental or  matter-of-fact,  would  be  held 
by  an  impartial  jury  to  have  been 
made  out.  By  aid  of  a  sort  of  flighty, 
haphazard,  hand-to-mouth  calculation 
(based,  however,  on  local  and  personal 
knowledge  of  every  farmstead,  cottage, 
dwelling,  hamlet,  group  of  houses,  or 
village,  in  my  own  wide  parish,  the 
only  certainty  about  it  being  that  it  is 
under,  not  over  the  mark),  I  make  the 
assumption  that,  at  this  present  mo- 
ment, there  are  in  the  parish  not  less 
than  five  hundred  pairs, — or,  to  avoid 
misconception,  I  will  say  couples — of 
sparrows  maintaining  themselves  from 
day  to  day.  About  these  five  hundred 
couples  of  sparrows,  if  I  canvassed 
the  parish  round,  going  to  every  one 
of  the  multitudinous  occupiers  of  land 
(considerably  over  one  hundred  in  all), 
and  asking  each  in  his  turn  if  he  felt 
or  thought  that  he  had  been  sensibly 
damaged  to  the  extent  even  of  one 
penny  by  the  dishonesty  or  other 
peccadilloes  of  the  sparrows  during  the 


months  of  October,  November,  Decem- 
ber, and  January  just  past,  I  do  not 
believe  that  I  should  find  one  in  every 
ten  who  either  could  or  would  answer 
my  inquiry  in  the  affirmative.  If  I 
were  to  go  on  with  my  catechism  and 
ask  if,  during  the  past  season,  they  had 
frequently  or  even  occasionally  seen  or 
known  of  the  sparrows  as  bullying  and 
ill-using  other  birds,  evicting  them 
from  their  nests  or  nest-places,  and 
usurping  the  same  for  themselves, — well, 
I  think  the  reply  would  be  in  the  form 
of  a  look  and  a  laugh, — the  look  to  see 
if  I  was  joking,  the  laugh  if  they  saw 
I  was  in  earnest.  But  suppose  I  con- 
tinue my  calculation,  and  extend  it  to 
the  county,  and  after  that  (as  I  in 
reality  did)  to  the  kingdom,  I  arrive 
at  a  total  of  certainly  not  under,  and 
most  likely  greatly  above,  five  millions 
of  couples  of  sparrows,  I  wonder  how 
many  cases  of  violence,  oppression, 
plunder,  usurpation  over  and  upon  the 
weaker  small  birds  could  be  alleged, 
and,  much  more,  established.  And 
suppose  we  carry  the  "wondering" 
further  back,  and  carry  it  as  far  as  the 
date  of  the  first  pathetic  tale  of  evicting 
the  martin,  or  any  like  villainy  (or 
say  for  the  last  half  century  only),  I 
wonder  how  many  alleged, — not  authen- 
ticated but  alleged — instances  could  be 
produced.  Is  there  one  in  a  million, 
— I  will  not  say  one  in  ten  thousand, 
one  in  a  thousand,  or  one  in  a  hundred 
— but  is  there  one  in  a  million,  or  one 
in  ten  millions,  that  has  ever  been 
heard  of,  or  that  possibly  could  be 
ferreted  out? 

Again,  I  wonder  what  we  should 
think  of  an  observing  foreigner  coming 
to  England  for  the  first  time,  and  re- 
cording his  observations,  and  promi- 
nent among  them  the  note,  founded  on 
the  fact  that  among  the  first  natives 
he  had  seen  on  landing,  two  or  three 
very  swarthy  individuals  had  come 
under  his  observation, — "The  English 
are  singularly  dark  in  complexion ; 
indeed,  they  might  be  described  as 
tawny  rather  than  fair  !  "  Yet  that 
is  the  way  the  sparrow's  character  is 
writ,    wide    generalisations  based    on 


A  Good  Word  for  the  Sparrow, 


461 


two  or  three,   or  a   few  separate  in- 
stances. 

When  the  charges  against  an  ac- 
cused person  or  party  are  found  on 
examination  to  resolve  themselves  into 
random  aspersions,  or,  at  least,  mis- 
representations, it  is  usually  held  to 
be  unnecessary  to  proceed  very  much 
further  with  the  defence.  Still  there  is 
the  old  saying,  *'  Throw  plenty  of  mud, 
and  some  of  it  is  sure  to  stick  ;  "  and, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  few  birds  have  been 
so  thoroughly  well  bespattered  as  the 
sparrow.  Now  I  am  not  going  to 
bring  witnesses  to  his  character,  as  I 
saw  done  the  other  day  in  a  periodical, 
where  the  Reverends  F.  0.  Morris, 
J.  G.  Wood,  Mr.  Harting,  and  others, 
were  put  into  the  witness-box,  but 
simply  to  state  what  the  general  result 
of  the  observations  made  during  a 
period  of  more  than  sixty-five  years' 
close  if  not  intimate  acquaintance 
with  him  really  is,  as  regards  his 
character  and  conduct.  I  have  seen  a 
good  deal  of  mischief  done  by  him  in 
wheat-fields  when  the  grain  was  ripen- 
ing. But  even  here  I  think  it  would 
be  fairer  to  qualify  the  charges  brought 
against  him.  According  to  my  obser- 
vation the  area  of  his  depredations  is 
not  as  wide  as  the  area  of  the  wheat- 
lands  said  to  be  affected.  He  does  not 
find  the  wheat-fields  out,  and  fly  to 
them  on  pilfering  intent,  in  whatever 
part  of  the  farmhold  they  may  be 
situated.  The  fields  near  home,  within 
easy  flight  of  the  farmstead,  are  the 
feeding-grounds  that  he  affects ;  and 
even  then  it  is  not  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  wheat-field  that  is  injured  by 
his  plundering  propensities.  I  remem- 
ber when  1  was  first  big  enough  to  be 
trusted  with  a  gun  (the  adequate  di- 
mensions seem  to  have  been  attained 
in  the  course  of  my  twelfth  year)  the 
field  separated  from  my  father's  gar- 
den by  the  hedge  out  of  which  I  shot 
my  first  blackbird  was  a  wheat-field  : 
and  I  think  I  never  saw  a  field  in 
which  the  still  standing  wheat  was 
more  damaged  by  the  sparrows  than 
that  field.  It  was  a  large  one,  twelve 
or   fifteen   acres,  the    upper  part   of 


it  being  not  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  barnyard,  stabling,  and 
other  offices.  But  the  sparrows  did 
not  spread  themselves  indiscriminately 
over  the  whole  area  of  the  field  ;  their 
attentions  seemed  to  be  limited  to  its 
upper  part,  and  to  the  strip  of  it  ad- 
joining the  aforesaid  hedge.  The 
**  stetches  "  lying  alongside  that 
hedge  (a  nice  bushy  one,  affording 
plentiful  shelter  for  them  if  disturbed), 
and  for  about  half  down  the  side  of 
the  field,  were  verily  and  indeed  sub- 
jected to  "  visitation  of  sparrows."  The 
rest  of  the  field  was  not  touched.  I 
have  noticed  the  same  thing  again  and 
again  within  the  last  half-score  years  ; 
only  here  the  inclosures  are  few  of 
them  of  any  great  size,  and  even  in 
these  smaller  fields  the  damage  done  is 
limited  to  the  lands  near  the  hedge. 
Yet  to  read  the  tirades  against  the 
sparrow  and  his  mischievous  propen- 
sities, one  is  left  to  infer  that  it  is  the 
great  total  of  the  wheat-field  that  is 
harried  and  wasted  by  his  unscrupu- 
lous maraudings. 

Again,  he  is  charged  with  dire  mis- 
chief on  the  flower-beds,  and  still  worse 
in  the  kitchen-garden.  My  experience 
in  a  large  garden  is  that  half-a-dozen 
slugs  do  more  mischief  among  the 
springing  flower-seeds  than  all  the 
birds  I  have  about  the  place,  inclusive 
of  the  fifteen  to  twenty  pair  of  spar- 
rows that  nest  in  my  ivy,  the  starling- 
boxes,  and  the  fir-trees  near  the 
house.  In  the  kitchen-garden  it  is 
true  much  damage  is  (or  would  be,  if 
I  permitted  it)  done  by  the  small  birds ; 
but  I  candidly  own  I  should  not  have 
thought  of  incriminating  the  sparrows 
as  the  principal  agents.  What  I 
have  found  is,  that  the  three  or  four 
pairs  of  greenfinches  which  annually 
nest  in  my  shrubs  do  five  times  the 
mischief  in  stooking  up  the  germinat- 
ing seeds  they  affect,  than  all  my  spar- 
rows put  together.  I  don't  say  these 
last  are  entirely  innocent;  but  I  do 
say  that,  if  I  had  only  the  sparrows 
to  contend  with  for  the  integrity  of 
my  drills  of  radish-seed,  cabbage-seed^ 
and  that  of  other   members   of  the 


462 


A  Good   Wo7d  for  the  Spat^mo, 


hrassica  family,  I  should  not  have  to 
trouble  myself  greatly.  As  it  is,  I  find 
that  my  mustard  and  cress,  radishes, 
and  so  forth,  are  most  safely  and  effi- 
ciently protected  by  a  few  lengths  of 
wire  pea-guards,  as  they  are  called,  but 
which  might  just  as  well  be  termed 
seed-guards  from  their  extensive 
utility  when  so  employed.  I  don't 
deny  that  mischief  is  done  by  the 
sparrows,  and  in  the  garden  as  well  as 
in  the  field ;  but  I  do  say  that  they 
are  credited  with  a  great  deal  that  they 
are  not  responsible  for,  and  that  very 
much  of  that  mischief,  by  whatsoever 
birds  effected,  is  easily  preventible. 
My  raspberries  are  under  galvanised 
wire  netting,  and  my  strawberries, 
gooseberries,  currants,  red  and  black, 
are  under  herring-nets  spread  over 
rough  frames,  or  low  posts  and  wires ; 
about  a  quarter  of  an  acre  of  the  old 
nets  named  having  been  procured  at 
an  expense  of  less  than  twenty-five 
shillings. 

I  have  noted  above  that,  during  the 
last  four  months  the  sparrows  here 
have  been  practically  innocuous,  and 
I  may  add  that  they  are  quite  safe  to 
continue  so  for  some  time  to  come, 
even  in  the  ways  that  they  are  so  un- 
justly blamed  for.  But  in  the  mean- 
while, as  in  the  past,  and  prospec- 
tively, they  are  **  maintaining  them- 
selves.** But  how  1  If  they  are  not 
living  on  the  farmers'  corn  or  the 
gardeners'  seed,  how  are  they  keeping 
body  and  soul  together  1  The  orni- 
thologists say  they  live  on  grain,  seeds, 
insects,  soft  vegetables,  and  so  on. 
But  if  we  eliminate  the  grain  and 
garden-seeds,  as  we  must  for  so  great 
a  portion  of  the  year,  what  have  they 
to  fall  back  upon  for  their  subsistence  ? 
Well,  I  go  into  a  farmyard,  and,  as  I 
let  the  gate  clash  behind  me,  I  disturb 
a  flock  of  five-and-twenty  or  thirty 
sparrows,  which  fly  quickly  up  into 
some  adjoining  tree,  or  to  the  roofs  of 
the  farm-premises  close  at  hand,  from 
the  middenstead  or  dunghill,  or 
manure-heap,  or  from  the  long  litter  in 
the  fold-yard,  or  some  such  like  place ; 
and,  if  they  are  not  further  disturbed, 
in   a   minute   or   two   you   see   them 


dropping  down  again  by  ones  and  twos 
to  the  place  they  had  flown  from.  Dis- 
turb the  surface  of  the  middenstead  or 
dunghill,  always  warm  from  the  natu- 
ral **  heating  "  going  on  below,  and 
even  in  the  winter's  day  you  see,  if 
not  "  any  amount,"  yet  certainly  no 
small  amount  of  animal  life  in  the 
shape  of  insects  in  some  stage  or 
other  of  their  developments.  Or 
see  the  flock  of  sparrows  again  at 
or  near  the  barn-door,  or  wherever 
the  dust  and  sweepings  of  the 
barn-floor  are  thrown  out  ;  anyone 
who  knows  the  nature  of  that  refuse, — 
that,  for  one  grain  of  corn  (probably 
imperfect  at  the  best),  it  contains  a 
hundred  seeds  of  plants  that  are  cer- 
tainly no  good  to  the  farmer — knows 
also  what  the  sparrows  find  there  to 
reward  their  sharp-eyed  and  diligent 
search.  That  is  the  way  the  sparrow 
lives  through  no  small  part  of  the 
entire  year,  doing  no  appreciable  harm, 
utilising  what  otherwise  would  be 
wasted,  consuming  what  would,  if  left 
uninterfered  with,  have  been  more  or 
less  noxious  to  the  land  and  its  culti- 
vators. 

But  further,  I  have  the  sparrow 
close  under  my  eye  and  actual  obser- 
vation any  day  or  every  day,  but  es- 
pecially in  times  of  continued  frost  and 
snow,  and  also  when  the  cares  and 
occupations  of  the  nesting,  season  are 
upon  him.  What  I  am  told  by  the 
sentimental  or  perfunctory  observer  is 
one  thing :  what  I  see  is  another.  I 
am  told  he  is  a  bully  and  injurious 
to  other  small  birds,  that  he  is  a 
feathered  dog-in-the-manger  and  usurp- 
er, that  he  is  bellicose  and  pugna- 
cious. Of  course  he  is  pugnacious  and 
fights  ;  he  would  not  be  bird  if  it  was 
otherwise.  But  it  is  with  his  own 
kind,  and  I  really  don't  think  that  he 
is  worse  than  other  birds,  or  different 
from  them  in  that  respect.  I  have 
seen  his  neighbours  in  my  ivy,  the 
starlings,  so  resolute  and  so  bitter  in 
their  hostilities  one  with  the  other, 
that  they  did  not  in  the  least  mind  my 
quoting  good  Dr.  Watts  to  them  from 
the  window,  but  kept  on  with  their 
scrimmage,   grappled    together    in    a 


A  Good   Word  for  the  Span^ow. 


463 


struggling,  dishevelled  feather-mass 
till  I  had  had  time  to  leave  the  room, 
tread  the  passage  to  the  door,  and  go 
round  most  part  of  two  sides  of 
the  house,  stoop  down  and  almost 
touch  them  with  my  outstretched 
hand,  before  they  would  give  over  and 
try  to  escape  from  a  man's  clutch. 
The  sparrows,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
much  more  amenable;  the  gentle  re- 
minder that 

*'  Your  little  claws  were  never  made 
To  scratch  each  other's  eyes," 

addressed  to  them  from  the  window, 
has  generally  a  soothing  effect.     One 
day  too,  in  this  garden,  I  saw  a  tri- 
angular duel  between  three  cock  par- 
tridges for  the  love  of  one  lady  par- 
tridge, who  sat  calmly  by  on  a  flower- 
bed, taking  no  apparent  interest  in  the 
issue  of  the  fight.     Perhaps  she   took 
a  pride  in  being  fought  about  ;   per- 
haps she  was  totally  indifferent  as  to 
who  got  the  mastery,  thinking  them 
all  equally  game  birds.     Anyway  she 
sat  there,  stolid  and   immobile,   save 
that    now    and   then    she    preened  a 
feather  or   two.     But  the  three  com- 
batants fought  heroically  on,  although 
I  had    advanced  within  four  or  five 
yards  of  them,  and   but  for  the  fact 
that  Miss  P.  felt  shy  at  my  approach, 
they  might  have  been  fighting  still  for 
all  1  can  tell.     Often  too,  in  the  old 
days  before  driving  was,  and  when  old 
grouse    had    the    dominancy   of    the 
moor,  I  have  seen  from  three  to  five 
old  cocks  holding   a  private   tourna- 
ment as  to  which  of  them  should  win 
some    as    yet     undeclared    moor-bird 
Queen  of  Beauty.      They  wheeled  and 
they   flew  in  wide  circles,  but  never 
in    a    straight  course,  never    heeding 
me  or  my  gun,  sometimes  two  only, 
then    three    or    four,    then   all    in   a 
rough-and-tumble  together,  so  that  if 
I    had    been    sanguinarily   inclined   I 
could  have  bagged  the  whole  lot  with 
a  couple  of  well-considered  shots.  And 
certainly  the  sparrows  are  no  excep- 
tion to  tliis  bird-rule  ;  though  (prob- 
ably   from    their   more  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  humanity)  they  never 
lose  their  presence  of  mind  in  such 


cases  to  the  same  extent  as  the  star- 
ling, partridge,  and  grouse  do. 

JBut  as  to  the  rest  of  it :  in  the 
hungriest  times  I  never  see  the  sparrow 
attack  his  marrows  in  size  or  nearly 
so ;  and,  what  is  very  much  more  to 
the  purpose,  I  never  see,  nor  ever  have 
seen,  any  signs  of  apprehension,  of 
even  striking  recognition  on  the  part 
of  other  small  birds,  occasioned  by  the 
advent  of  one  or  a  dozen  sparrows. 
If  a  cat  or  a  kitten,  or  even  a  dog, 
shows  itself  anywhere  near,  up  fly  the 
birds,  some  into  the  ivy,  some  to  the 
neighbouring  thorn,  the  blackbirds 
and  so  on  to  more  distant  shelter.  If 
I  show  myself  abruptly  at  the  window, 
much  the  same  sort  of  stampede  takes 
place.  But  the  advent  of  a  whole 
troop  of  sparrows  makes  not  the  slight- 
est apparent  difference  to  the  company 
assembled,  hedge-sparrows,  chaffinches, 
robins,  or  what  not.  To  be  sure,  if 
one  of  the  new  arrivals  seems  to  affect 
a  morsel  to  which  a  robin  has  already 
attached  himself,  or  even  appears 
likely  to  direct  his  attention  that  way, 
the  robin,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
gives  him  a  decided  hint  with  his  sharp 
bill  to  "  keep  out  of  that ;  "  and  I  never 
yet  saw  even  the  pawkiest  sparrow 
venture  to  stand  up  to  the  aggressive 
redbreast. 

As  to  what  I  have  seen  well  called 
"  the  ridiculous  notion  of  his  driving 
other  birds  away,"  or  "displacing  other 
birds  more  valuable  than  himself,"  or 
having  to  do  with  the  diminution  in 
the  numbers  of  whitethroats,  chaf- 
finches and  tits,  and  all  the  rest  of 
that  farrago  of  nonsense,  I  do  not  so 
much  question  the  alleged  facts  on 
which  it  is  made  to  depend,  as  deny 
them  altogether.  It  is  a  fact  that 
during  the  severe  snowy  weather  we 
had  a  few  weeks  ago  my  usual  number 
of  pensioner  sparrows  had  dwindled 
down  to  four  or  five  couple  in  place  of 
the  pristine  ten,  twelve,  or  fifteen 
couple.  But  I  do  not  allege  it  as  a  fact 
that  these  diminished  numbers  are  due 
to  a  league  of  the  starlings  (who  were 
present  to  the  number  of  four  pairs, 
contrary  to  all  precedent),  robins, 
euddiea,  chaffinches,  &c.,  formed  against 


464 


A  Good   Word  for  the  Sparroio. 


the  sparrows ;  although  if  I  did,  it 
would  be  just  as  reasonable  and  just 
as  well  supported  as  these  contrary 
statements  under  notice.  I  used  to  see 
great  flocks  of  greenfinches,  numbering 
many  scores,  sometimes  even  two  or 
three  hundreds,  in  our  corn  stubbles 
during  the  late  autumn  and  early  win- 
ter, while  of  late  years  the  numbers 
are  strangely  reduced.  But  I  think 
there  is  another  way  of  accounting  for 
such  diminution,  besides  attributing  it 
to  any  cause  analogous  to  the  alleged 
hostile  action  of  the  sparrow, — a  cause 
too  much  more  in  harmony  with  the 
ascertained  laws  of  nature.  There  are 
fewer  slovenly  farmers  than  there  used 
to  be.  The  greenfinches  had,  what  a 
gardener  of  mine  once  termed,  "  a 
lavishing  time  of  it "  when  whole 
farms  had  their  cornfields  yellow  with 
charlock  while  the  corn  was  growing, 
and  strewed  with  its  seed  after  harvest. 
And  real  observers  know  well  enough 
that  the  questions  of  adequate  supply 
of  food  and  varying  climatic  influences 
have  more  to  do  with  the  presence  or 
absence  of  birds  in  successive  seasons 
than  any  such  utterly  inadequate  causes 
as  the  alleged  hostility  or  usurping 
aggression  of  some  other,  and  especially 
only  a  single,  species  of  birds. 

As  to  my  friend  the  sparrow's  "  grace- 
less, heavy  motions,'*  his  "  monotonous 
chirp,"  and  (to  put  it  gently)  painful 
lack  of  beauty,  one  would  think  that 
ordinary  dwellers  in  the  country  have 
neither  ears  nor  eyes.  And  yet,  I 
used  to  think  that  "monotonous"  was 
hardly  the  word  to  apply  when  a  dozen 
or  two  of  sparrows  were  having,  as  they 
so  frequently  do  have,  a  good  lively 
little  squabble  among  themselves.  Their 
gamut  seemed  to  me  to  be  one  of  very 
considerable  range.  And  besides,  al- 
though I  should  be  sorry  to  claim  for 
them  the  merits  of  distinguished  vocal- 
ists, still  there  are  to  my  ear  few 
country  sounds  more  pleasant  than  the 
soft  chirp  of  a  flock  of  sparrows  when 
the  day  with  all  its  occupations  and 
excitements  is  ended,  and  they  are  just 
cosily  talking  it  over  before  bidding 


good-night  with  mutual  assurances  of 
good  feeling. 

As  to  his  vesture,  it  may  not  be  a 
Joseph's  coat ;  nor  am  I  quite  sure  that 
the  matutinal  walking-dress  of  a  certain 
distinguished  character  when  about  to 
"visit  his  snug  little  farm,"  entirely 
commends  itself  to  my  taste.  Cer- 
tainly the  sparrow  is  not  arrayed  like 
that  particular  "  old  gentleman,"  and, 
for  one,  I  had  rather  that  he  was  not. 
I  have  as  delicately  painted  a  portrait 
of  the  cock  sparrow  as  any  that,  so  far 
as  I  know,  exists  in  any  gallery,  now 
before  me  ;  and  as  I  look  at  the  well- 
chosen  shades  of  his  costume,  so  har- 
moniously arranged  and  so  good  in  them- 
selves, chestnuts  and  browns  thrown  up 
and  relieved  by  pure  whites  and  good 
blacks,  and  himself  so  well  groomed 
and  nattily  arranged,  I  think  I  admire 
him  considerably  more  than  the  great 
majority  of  those  Lords  of  the  Bird 
Realm  whose  court-dress  has  given 
occasion  to  the  somewhat  sarcastic 
remark  that  "  fine  feathers  make  fine 
birds."  Of  course  I  may  be,  very 
likely  am,  only  manifesting  my  bad 
taste,  or  showing  that  I  have  "  no  eye 
for  beauty."  Indeed,  I  am  almost 
afraid  that  I  may  have  no  eye  at  all, 
because  I  have  never  yet  perceived  the 
"  graceless,  heavy  motions "  of  these 
inferior  and  reprobate  birds.  In  my 
blindness,  or  at  least  incapacity  to  see 
clearly,  I  had  fancied  that  the  move- 
ments of  the  "pert,"  the  "  impudent  " 
sparrow  were  the  reverse  of  heavy ; 
were,  rather,  active,  brisk,  alert,  lie 
motions  of  a  toad  are  possibly  some- 
what graceless  and  heavy  ;  nor  would 
I  call  those  of  a  gawky  Cochin  China 
fowl,  as  it  hurries  out  of  the  way  of 
an  advancing  vehicle,  either  light  or 
graceful.  But  then,  the  imperfection 
of  my  vision  is  such  that  I  cannot 
compare  the  quick,  brisk  flight  of  the 
sparrow,  his  natural,  easy  equilibrium 
as  he  alights,  his  perfect  self-possession 
as  with  bright  eye  he  surveys  the 
scene,  to  the  movements  of  either  the 
chicken  or  the  toad. 

J.  C.  Atkinson. 


465 


LORD   BEAUPREY. 


(in    threw    parts  ;    part    i.) 


I. 

Some  reference  had  been  made  to 
Northerley,  which  was  within  an  easy 
ilrive,  and  Firminger  described  how  he 
had  dined  there  the  night  before  and 
had  found  a  lot  of  people.  Mrs.  Ash- 
bury,  one  of  the  two  visitors,  inquired 
who  these  people  might  be,  and  he 
mentioned  half-a-dozen  names,  among 
which  was  that  of  young  Raddle, 
which  had  been  a  good  deal  on  people's 
lips,  and  even  in  the  newspapers,  on 
the  occasion,  still  recent,  of  his  step- 
ping into  the  fortune,  exceptionally 
vast  even  as  the  product  of  a  patent 
glue,  left  him  by  a  father  whose  ugly 
name  on  all  the  vacant  spaces  of  the 
world  had  exasperated  generations  of 
men. 

"  Oh,  is  he  there?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ash- 
bury,  in  a  tone  which  might  have 
been  taken  as  a  vocal  translation  of 
the  act  of  pricking  up  one's  ears.  She 
didn't  hand  on  the  information  to  her 
daughter,  who  was  talking, — if  a 
lieauty  of  so  few  phrases  could  have 
>)een  said  to  talk — with  Mary  Gosselin, 
but  in  the  course  of  a  few  moments 
she  put  down  her  teacup  with  a  little 
short,  sharp  movement,  and,  getting 
uj),  gave  the  girl  a  poke  with  her 
parasol.  "  Come,  Maud,  we  must  be 
stirring." 

'*  You  pay  ua  a  very  short  visit," 
said  Mrs.  Gosselin,  intensely  demure 
over  the  fine  web  of  her  knitting. 
Mrs.  Ash  bury  looked  hard  for  an  in- 
stant into  her  bland  eyes,  then  she 
gave  poor  Maud  another  poke.  She 
alluded  to  a  reason  and  expressed  re- 
grets ;  but  she  got  her  daughter  into 
motion,  and  Guy  Firminger  passed 
through    the   garden    with    the    two 

No.    390. — VOL.    LXV. 


ladies  to  put  them  into  their  carriage. 
Mrs.  Ashbury  protested  particularly 
against  any  further  escort.  While  he 
was  absent  the  other  mother  and 
daughter,  sitting  together  on  their 
pretty  lawn  in  the  yellow  light  of  the 
August  afternoon,  talked  of  the  fright- 
ful way  Maud  Ashbury  had  *'  gone 
off,"  and  of  something  else  as  to  which 
there  was  more  to  say  when  their 
third  visitor  came  back. 

**  Don't  think  me  grossly  inquisi- 
tive if  I  ask  you  where  they  told 
the  coachman  to  drive,"  said  Mary 
Gosselin  as  the  young  man  dropped, 
near  her,  into  a  low  wicker  chair, 
stretching  his  long  legs  as  if  he  were 
one  of  the  family. 

Firminger  stared.  **Upon  my 
word  I  didn't  particularly  notice, — 
but  I  think  the  old  lady  said 
*  Home  ' ! " 

"  There,  mamma  dear  ! "  the  girl 
exclaimed,  triumphantly. 

But  Mrs.  Gosselin  only  knitted  on, 
persisting  in  profundity.  She  replied 
that  "  Home  "  was  a  feint,  that  Mrs. 
Ashbury  would  already  have  given 
another  order,  and  that  it  was  her 
wish  to  hurry  off  to  Northerley  that 
had  made  her  keep  them  from  going 
with  her  to  the  carriage,  in  which 
they  would  have  seen  her  take  a  sus- 
pected direction.  Mary  explained  to 
Guy  Firminger  that  her  mother  had 
perceived  poor  Mrs.  Ashbury  to  be 
frantic  to  reach  the  house  at  which 
she  had  heard  that  Mr.  Raddle  was 
staying.  The  young  man  stared 
again  and  wanted  to  know  what  she 
desired  to  do  with  Mr.  Raddle.  Mary 
replied  that  her  mother  would  tell  him 
what  Mrs.  Ashbury  desired  to  do 
with  poor  Maud. 

H   H 


46G 


Lcn^d  Beawprey, 


"  What  all  Christian  mothers  de- 
sire," said  Mrs.  Gosselin ;  "  only  she 
doesn't  know  how." 

"To  marry  the  dear  child  to  Mr. 
Raddle,"  Mary  added,  smiling. 

Firminger  stared  more  than  ever. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to 
marry  your  dear  child  to  that  little 
cad  1  '*  he  inquired  of  the  elder  lady. 

"  I  speak  of  the  general  duty, — not 
of  the  particular  case,"  said  Mrs. 
Grosselin. 

"  Mamma  does  know  how,"  Mary 
went  on. 

"  Then  why  ain't  you  married  %  " 
asked  Firminger. 

**  Because  we're  not  acting,  like  the 
Ashburys,  with  injudicious  precipita- 
tion. Isn't  that  about  it  ? "  the  girl 
demanded,  laughing,  of  her  mother. 

"  Laugh  at  me,  my  dear,  as  much  as 
you  like;  it's  very  lucky  you've  got 
me,"  Mrs.  Gosselin  declared. 

"  She  means  I  can't  manage  for 
myself,"  said  Mary  to  the  visitor. 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,"  Mrs. 
Gosselin  murmured,  counting  stitches. 

"  I  can't,  mamma,  I  can't ;  I  admit 
it  !  "  Mary  continued. 

"  But  injudicious  precipitation  and, 
— what's  the  other  thing? — creeping 
prudence — seem  to  come  out  in  very 
much  the  same  place,"  the  young  man 
objected. 

"  Do  you  mean  since  T  too  wither  on 
the  tree  ? " 

"  It  only  comes  back  to  saying  how 
hard  it  is,  nowadays,  to  marry  one's 
daughters,"  said  the  lucid  Mrs.  Gosse- 
lin, saving  Firminger,  however,  the 
trouble  of  an  ingenious  answer.  "  I 
don't  contend  that,  at  the  best,  it's 
easy." 

But  Guy  Firminger  would  not  have 
struck  you  as  capable  of  much  con- 
versational effort  as  he  lounged  there 
in  the  summer  softness,  with  ironic 
familiarities,  like  one  of  the  old 
friends  who  rarely  deviate  into  sin- 
cerity. He  was  a  robust  but  loose- 
limbed  young  man,  with  a  well-shaped 
head  and  a  smooth,  fair,  kind  face. 
He  was  in  knickerbockers,  and  his 
clothes,  which  had  seen  service,  were 


composed  of  articles  that  didn't  match. 
His  laced  boots  were  dusty, — he  had 
evidently  walked  a  certain  distance ; 
an  indication  confirmed  by  the  lin- 
gering, sociable  way  in  which,  in  his 
basket-seat,  he  tilted  himself  towards 
Mary  Gosselin.  It  pointed  to  a 
pleasant  reason  for  a  long  walk.  This 
young  lady,  of  five-and-twenty,  had 
black  hair  and  blue  eyes ;  a  combina- 
tion often  associated  with  the  effect 
of  beauty.  The  beauty  in  this  case, 
however,  was  dim  and  latent,  not 
vulgarly  obvious ;  and  if  her  height 
and  slenderness  gave  that  impression 
of  length  of  line  which,  as  we  know, 
is  the  fashion,  Mary  Gosselin  had,  on 
the  other  hand,  too  much  expression 
to  be  generally  admired.  Every  one 
thought  her  "  clever " ;  a  few  of  the 
most  simple-minded  even  thought  her 
plain.  What  Guy  Firminger  thought, 
— or  rather  what  he  took  for  granted, 
for  he  was  not  built  up  on  depths  of 
reflection — will  probably  appear  from 
this  narrative. 

"  Yes  indeed;  things  have  come  to 
a  pass  that's  .  awful  for  t*^,"  the 
girl  announced. 

"  For  U8,  you  mean,"  said  Firmin- 
ger. "  We're  hunted  like  the  ostrich ; 
we're  trapped  and  stalked  and  run  to 
earth.  We  go  in  fear, — I  assure  you 
we  do." 

"  Are  you  hunted,  Guy  ?  "  Mrs. 
Gosselin  asked,  with  an  inflection  of 
her  own. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Gosselin,  even  mo*  qui 
V0U8  'parh,  the  ordinary  male  of  com- 
merce, inconceivable  as  it  may  appear. 
I  know  something  about  it." 

"  And  of  whom  do  you  go  in  fear  % 
Mary  Gosselin  asked,  taking  up  an 
uncut  book  and  a  paper-knife  which 
she  had  laid  down  on  the  advent  of 
the  other  visitors. 

"  My  dear  child,  of  Diana  and  her 
nymphs,  of  the  spinster  at  large. 
She's  always  out  with  her  rifle.  And 
it  isn't  only  that ;  you  know  there's 
always  a  second  gun,  a  walking  arsenal 
at  her  heels.  I  forget,  for  the  mo- 
ment, who  Diana's  mother  was,  and 
the  genealogy  of  the  nymphs  ;  but  not 


if 


Lord  Beau2)Tey. 


467 


only  do  the  old  ladies  know  the  younger 
ones  are  out,  they  distinctly  go  %cith 
them/' 

"  Who  was  Diana's  mother,  my 
dear?"  Mrs.  Gosselin  inquired  of  her 
daughter. 

'*  She  was  a  beautiful  old  lady  with 
pink  ribbons  in  her  cap  and  a  genius 
for  knitting,"  the  girl  replied,  cutting 
her  book. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  speaking  of  you  two 
dears ;  you're  not  like  any  one  else  ; 
you're  an  immense  comfort,"  said  Guy 
Firminger.  "  But  they've  reduced  it 
to  a  science,  and  I  assure  you  that  if 
one  were  any  one  in  particular,  if  one 
were  not  protected  by  one's  obscurity, 
one's  life  would  be  a  burden.  Upon 
my  honour  one  wouldn't  escape.  I've 
seen  it,  I've  watched  them.  Look  at 
poor  Beauprey, — look  at  little  Eaddle 
over  there.  He's  offensive,  but  I 
bleed  for  him." 

"  Lord  Beauprey  won't  marry  again," 
said  Mrs.  Gosselin,  with  an  air  of  con- 
viction. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  him  !  " 

"  Come, — that's  a  concession  to  our 
charms!"  Mary. laughed. 

But  the  ruthless  young  man  ex- 
plained away  his  concession.  "  I  mean 
that  to  be  married's  the  only  protection, 
— or  else  to  be  engaged." 

*'  To  be  permanently  engaged, — 
wouldn't  that  do  ?  "  Mary  Gosselin 
asked. 

**  Beautifully, — I  would  try  it  if  I 
were  a  partV* 

"  And  how's  the  little  boy  1 "  Mrs. 
Gosselin  presently  inquired. 

*'  What  little  boy  ?  " 

**  Your  little  cousin, — Lord  Beau- 
prey's  child  ;  isn't  it  a  boy  1 " 

"  Oh,  poor  little  beggar,  lie  isn't  up 
to  much.  He  was  awfully  damaged  by 
that  scarlet  fever." 

**  You're  not  the  rose,  indeed,  but 
you're  tolerably  near  it,"  the  elder 
lady  presently  continued. 

**  What  do  you  call  near  it  1  Not 
even  in  the  same  garden, — not  in  any 
garden  at  all,  alas  !  " 

"  Tliere  are  three  lives, — but  after 
all ! " 


"  Dear  lady,  don't  be  homicidal !  " 

"What  do  you  call  the  'rose'?" 
Mary  asked  of  her  mother. 

"The  title,"  said  Mrs.  Gosselin, 
promptly  but  softly. 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Firm- 
inger laugh  aloud.  "  You  don't  men- 
tion the  property." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  the  whole  thing." 

*'Is  the  property  very  large?"  said 
Mary  Gosselin. 

"  Fifty  thousand  a  year,"  her  mother 
responded  ;  at  which  the  young  man 
laughed  out  again. 

"  Take  care,  mamma,  or  we  shall  ex- 
pose ourselves  to  mythological  com- 
parisons I  "  the  girl  exclaimed  ;  a  warn- 
ing that  elicited  from  Guy  Firminger 
the  just  remark  that  there  would  be 
time  enough  for  that  when  his  pros- 
pects should  be  worth  speaking  of. 
He  leaned  over  to  pick  up  his  hat  and 
stick,  as  if  it  were  his  time  to  go,  but 
he  didn't  go  for  another  quarter  of  an 
houi*,  and  during  these  minutes  his 
prospects  received  some  consideration. 
He  was  Lord  Beauprey's  first  cousin, 
and  the  three  interposing  lives  were 
his  lordship's  own,  that  of  his  little 
sickly  son,  and  that  of  his  uncle  the 
Major,  who  was  also  Guy's  uncle  and 
with  whom  the  young  man  was  at 
present  staying.  It  was  from  homely 
Trist,  the  Major's  house,  that  he  had 
walked  over  to  Mrs.  Gosselin's.  Frank 
Firminger,  who  had  married  in  youth 
a  woman  with  something  of  her  own 
and  eventually  left  the  army,  had 
nothing  but  girls,  but  he  was  only  of 
middle  age  and  might  possibly  still 
have  a  son.  At  any  rate,  his  life  was 
a  very  good  one.  Beauprey  might 
marry  again,  and,  marry  or  not,  he 
was  barely  thirty-three  and  might  live 
to  a  great  age.  The  child,  moreover, 
poor  little  devil,  would  doubtless,  with 
the  growing  consciousness  of  an  in- 
centive, develope  a  capacity  for  dura- 
tion ;  so  that  altogether  Guy  professed 
himself,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world, 
unable  to  take  a  rosy  view  of  the  dis- 
appearance of  obstacles.  He  treated 
the  subject  with  a  jocularity  that,  in 
view  of  the  remoteness  oi  his  chance, 

HH  2 


46S 


Lord  Beaupi*ey, 


was  not  wholly  tasteless,  and  the  dis- 
cussion, between  old  friends  and  in  the 
light  of  this  extravagance,  was  less 
crude  than  perhaps  it  sounds.  The 
young  man  quite  declined  to  see  any 
latent  brilliancy  in  his  future.  They 
had  all  been  lashing  him  up,  his  poor 
dear  mother,  his  uncle  Frank,  and 
Beauprey  as  well,  to  make  that  future 
political ;  but  even  if  he  should  get  in 
(he  was  nursing — oh,  so  languidly  ! — 
a  possible  opening),  it  would  only  be 
into  the  shallow  edge  of  the  stream. 
He  would  stand  there  like  a  tall  idiot 
with  the  water  up  to  his  ankles.  He 
didn't  know  how  to  swim, — in  that 
element ;  he  didn't  know  how  to  do 
anything. 

"  T  think  you're  very  perverse,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gosselin.  "  I'm  sure 
you  have  great  dispositions." 

"  For  what, — except  for  sitting  here 
and  talking  with  you  and  Mary  ?  I 
like  this  sort  of  thing,  but  scarcely 
anjrthing  else." 

**  You'd  do  very  well  if  you  weren't 
so  lazy,"  Mary  said.  "  I  believe  you're 
the  very  laziest  person  in  the  world." 

"  So  do  I, — the  very  laziest  in  the 
world,"  the  young  man  contentedly 
replied.  "  But  how  can  I  regret  it, 
when  it  keeps  me  so  quiet,  when  (I 
might  even  say,)  it  makes  me  so 
amiable]'* 

"  You'll  have,  one  of  these  days,  to 
get  over  your  quietness,  and  perhaps 
even  a  little  over  your  amiability," 
Mrs.  Gosselin  sagaciously  stated. 

'*  I  devoutly  hope  not." 

"  You'll  have  to  perform  the  duties 
of  your  position." 

"  Do  you  mean  keep  my  stump  of  a 
brot)m  in  order  and  my  crossing  irre- 
proachable 1 " 

"  You  may  say  what  you  like  ;  you 
will  be  a  paHi,^*  Mrs.  Gosselin  con- 
tinued. 

"  Well,  then,  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst  I  shall  do  what  I  said  just 
now,  I  shall  get  some  good  plausible 
girl  to  see  me  through." 

"  The  proper  way  to  *  get '  her  will 
be  to  marry  her.  After  you're  mar- 
ried you  won't  be  a  partV 


"  Dear  mamma,  he'll  think  you're 
already  beginning  the  siege ! "  Mary 
Gosselin  laughingly  wailed. 

Guy  Firminger  looked  at  her  a 
moment.  "  I  say,  Mary,  wouldn't 
you  do?" 

"  For  the  good  plausible  girl  ? 
Should  I  be  plausible  enough  ?  " 

"  Surely,  —  what  could  be  more 
natural?  Everything  would  seem  to 
contribute  to  the  suitability  of  our 
alliance.  I  should  be  known  to  have 
known  you  for  years, — from  child- 
hood's sunny  hour ;  I  should  be  known 
to  have  buUied  you,  and  even  to  have 
been  bullied  by  you,  in  the  period  of 
pinafores.  My  relations  from  a  ten- 
der age  with  your  brother,  which  led 
to  our  schoolroom  romps  in  holidays, 
and  to  the  happy  footing  on  which 
your  mother  has  always  been  so  good 
as  to  receive  me  here,  would  add  to 
all  the  presumptions  of  intimacy. 
People  would  accept  such  a  conclusion 
as  inevitable." 

"  Among  all  your  reasons  you  don't 
mention  the  young  lady's  attractions," 
said  Mary  Gx>sselin. 

Firminger  stared  .  a  moment,  his 
clear  eye  lighted  by  his  happy  thought. 
"  I  don't  mention  the  young  man's. 
They  would  be  so  obvious,  on  one  side 
and  the  other,  as  to  be  taken  for 
granted." 

'^  And  is  it  your  idea  that  one  should 
pretend  to  be  engaged  to  you  all  one's 
life?" 

"Oh  no,  simply  till  I  should  have 
had  time  to  look  round.  I'm  deter- 
mined not  to  be  hustled  and  bewil- 
dered into  matrimony, — ^to  be  dragged 
to  the  altar  before  I  know  where  I  am. 
With  such  an  arrangement  as  the  one 
I  speak  of  I  should  be  able  to  take  my 
time,  to  keep  my  head,  to  make  my 
choice." 

"  And  how  would  the  young  lady 
make  hers  ? " 

"  How  do  you  mean,  hers  ?" 

"  The  selfishness  of  men  is  some- 
thing exquisite.  Suppose  the  young 
lady, — if  it's  conceivable  that  you 
should  find  one  idiotic  enough  to  be  a 
party  to  such  a  transaction — suppose 


Lm^d  Beauprey, 


469 


the  poor  girl  herself  should  happen  to 
wish  to  be  really  engaged  1  '* 

Guy  Firminger  thought  a  moment, 
with  his  slow  but  not  stupid  smile. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  m«  ?  " 

"  To  you, — or  to  some  one  else." 

"  Oh,  if  she*d  give  me  notice,  I'd 
let  her  off." 

"Let  her  off  till  you  could  find  a 
substitute  % " 

"  Yes, — but  I  confess  it  would  be  a 
great  inconvenience.  People  wouldn*t 
take  the  second  one  so  seriously." 

"  She  would  have  to  make  a  sacri- 
fice ;  she  would  have  to  wait  till  you 
should  know  where  you  were?"  Mrs. 
Gosselin  suggested. 

"  Yes,  but  where  would  li&r  advan- 
tage come  in?  "  Mary  persisted. 

"  Only  in  the  pleasure  of  charity  ; 
the  moral  satisfaction  of  doing  a  fel- 
low a  good  turn,"  said  Firminger. 

"  You  must  think  one  is  eager  to 
oblige  you  ! " 

"  Ah,  but  surely  I  could  count  on 
you,  couldn't  I?"  the  young  man 
asked. 

Mary  had  finished  cutting  her  book  ; 
she  got  up  and  flung  it  down  on  the 
tea-table.  "  What  a  preposterous 
conversation ! "  she  exclaimed  with 
force,  tossing  the  words  from  her  as 
she  had  tossed  her  book ;  and,  looking 
round  her  vaguely  a  moment,  without 
meeting  Guy  Firminger's  eye,  she 
walked  away  to  the  house. 

Firminger  sat  watching  her ;  then 
he  said,  serenely,  to  her  mother  :  "Why 
lias  Mary  left  us  1 " 

"  She  has  gone  to  get  something,  I 
suppose." 

**  What  has  she  gone  to  get  ?  " 

"  A  little  stick  to  beat  you,  per- 
haps." 

"  You  don't  mean  I've  been  objec- 
tionable?" 

"  Dear,  no, — I'm  joking.  One  thing 
is  very  certain,"  pursued  Mrs.  Gosse- 
lin ;  "  that  you  ought  to  work  and  to 
try  to  get  on  exactly  as  if  nothing 
could  ever  happen.  Oughtn't  you  ?  " 
she  insisted,  as  her  visitor  continued 
silent. 

"  I'm  sure  she  doesn't  like  it ! "  he 


exclaimed,  without  heeding  her  ques- 
tion. 

**Doesn't  like  what?" 

"  The  bad  taste  of  my  intellectual 
flights." 

"  You're  very  clever ;  she  always 
likes  that,''  said  Mrs.  Gosselin.  "  You 
ought  to  go  in  for  something  serious, 
for  something  honourable,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  just  as  much  as  if  you  had 
nothing  at  all  to  look  to." 

"  Words  of  wisdom,  dear  Mrs. 
Gosselin,"  Firminger  replied,  rising 
slowly  from  his  relaxed  attitude. 
"  But  what  liave  I  to  look  to  ?  " 

She  raised  her  mild,  deep  eyes  to 
him  as  he  stood  before  her, — she 
might  have  been  a  fairy  godmother. 
"  Everything  ! " 

"  But  you  know  I  can't  poison 
them !  " 

"  That  won't  be  necessary." 

He  looked  at  her  an  instant ;  then, 
with  a  laugh  :  "  One  might  think  you 
would  undertake  it  !  " 

"  I  almost  would, — iov  you.  Good- 
bye." 

"  Take  care,  —  if  they  should  be 
carried  off  ! "  But  Mrs.  Gosselin  only 
repeated  her  good-bye,  and  the  young 
man  departed  before  Mary  had  come 
back. 

II. 

Nearly  two  years  after  Guy  Fir- 
minger had  spent  that  friendly  hour 
in  Mrs.  Gosselin's  little  garden  in 
Hampshire,  this  far-seeing  woman 
was  enabled  (by  the  return  of  her  son, 
who,  in  New  York,  in  an  English 
bank,  occupied  a  position  in  which 
they  all  rejoiced,  to  such  great  things 
might  it  possibly  lead,)  to  resume  pos- 
session for  the  season  of  the  little 
house  in  London  which  her  husband 
had  left  her  to  live  in,  but.  which  her 
native  thrift,  in  determining  her  to  let 
it  for  a  term,  had  converted  into  a 
source  of  income.  Hugh  Gosselin, 
who  was  thirty  years  old  and  had  been 
despatched  to  America  at  twenty- 
three,  before  his  father's  death,  to 
exert  himself,  was  understood  to  be 


470 


Lord  BcaiLprey. 


■I 


i; 
•I 


I 

'     I 


doing  very  well, — so  well  that  his 
devotion  to  the  interests  of  his  em- 
ployers had  been  rewarded,  for  the 
first  time,  with  a  real  holiday.  He 
was  to  remain  in  England  from  May 
to  August,  undertaking,  as  he  said,  to 
make  it  all  right  if  during  this  time 
his  mother  should  occupy  (to  contri- 
bute to  his  entertainment)  the  habi- 
tation in  Chester  Street.  He  was  a 
small,  preoccupied  young  man,  with  a 
sharpness  as  acquired  as  a  new  coat ; 
he  struck  his  mother  and  sister  as 
intensely  American.  For  the  first  few 
days  after  his  arrival  they  were  star- 
tled by  his  intonations,  though  they 
admitted  that  they  had  had  an  escape 
when  he  reminded  them  that  he  might 
have  brought  with  him  an  accent 
embodied  in  a  wife. 

"  When  you  do  take  one,"  said 
Mrs.  Gosselin,  who  regarded  such  an 
accident,  over  there,  as  inevitable, 
**  you  must  charge  her  high  for  it." 

It  was  not  with  this  question, 
however,  that  the  little  family  in 
Chester  Street  was  mainly  engaged, 
but  with  the  last  incident  in  the 
extraordinary  succession  of  events 
which,  like  a  chapter  of  romance,  had 
in  the  course  of  a  few  months  con- 
verted their  vague  and  impecunious 
friend  Guy  Firminger  into  a  person- 
age envied  and  honoured.  It  was 
as  if  a  blight  had  been  cast  on  all 
his  hindrances.  On  the  day  Hugh 
Oosselin  sailed  from  New  York  the 
delicate  little  boy  at  Bosco  had  suc- 
cumbed to  an  attack  of  diphtheria. 
His  father  had  died  of  typhoid  the 
previous  winter  at  Naples  ;  his  uncle, 
a  few  weeks  later,  had  had  a  fatal  acci- 
dent in  the  hunting-field,  feo  strangely, 
so  rapidly  had  the  situation  cleared 
up,  had  his  fate  and  theirs  worked  for 
him.  Guy  had  waked  up  one  morning 
to  an  earldom  which  carried  with  it  a 
fortune  not  alone  nominally  but 
really  great.  Mrs.  Gosselin  and 
Mary  had  not  written  to  him,  but 
they  knew  he  was  at  Bosco  ;  he  had 
remained  there  after  the  funeral  of 
the  late  little  lord.  '  Mrs.  Gosselin, 
who    heard    everything,     had     heard 


somehow  that  he  was  behaving  with 
the  greatest  consideration,  giving  the 
guardians,  the  trustees,  whatever  they 
were    called,   plenty   of    time    to    do 
everything.       Everything    was    com- 
paratively  simple;  in  the  absence  of 
collaterals   there  were  so   few   other 
people  concerned.     The  principal  rela- 
tives   were   poor    Frank    Firminger's 
widow  and   her    girls,  who   had  seen 
themselves   so    near  to   new  honours 
and    luxuries.       Probably   the     girls 
would    expect   their  cousin    Guy    to 
marry    one      of      them,    and     think 
it  the  least  he  could   decently  do;  a 
view  the   young   man   himself   (if  he 
were  very  magnanimous)  might  possi- 
bly   take.      The   question    would   be 
whether  he  would   be  very  magnani- 
mous.       These    young    ladies     were, 
without    exception,    almost    painfully 
plain.       On    the    other    hand     Guy 
Firminger, — or  Lord  Beauprey,  as  one 
would  have  to  begin  to  call  him  now — 
was  unmistakably  kind.  Mrs.  Gosselin 
appealed   to   her   son   as    to  whether 
their  noble  friend  were  not  unmistak- 
ably kind. 

'*  Of  course  I*ve  known  him  always, 
and  that  time  he  came  out  to  America, 
— when  was  it  ?  four  years  ago— I 
saw  him  every  day.  I  like  him  awfully 
and  all  that,  but  since  you  push  me, 
you  know,"  said  Hugh  Gosselin,  "  I'm 
bound  to  say  that  the  first  thing  to 
mention  in  any  description  of  him 
would  be, — if  you  wanted  to  be  quite 
correct — that  he's  unmistakably 
selfish." 

^*  I  see, — I  see,"  Mrs.  Gosselin 
thoughtfully  replied.  "Of  course  I 
know  what  you  mean,"  she  added,  in 
a  moment.  **  But  is  he  any  more  so 
than  any  one  else?  Every  one*s  un- 
mistakably selfish." 

"  Every  one  but  you  and  Mary,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"  And  you  J  dear  !  "  his  mother 
smiled.  "  But  a  person  may  be  kind, 
you  know, — mayn't  he  ? — at  the  same 
time  that  he  is  selfish.  There  are 
different  sorts." 

"Different  sorts  of  kindness?" 
Hugh  Gosselin  asked  with  a  laugh  ;  and 


Lord  Beauprey, 


471 


the  inquiry  undertaken  by  his  mother 
occupied  them  for  the  moment,  de- 
manding a  subtlety  of  treatment  from 
which  they  were  not  conscious  of  shrink- 
ing, of  which,  rather,  they  had  an  idea 
that  they  were  perhaps  exceptionally 
capable.  They  came  back  to  the 
fundamental  proposition  that  Guy 
Firminger  was  indolent,  that  he  would 
probably  never  do  anything  great,  but 
that  he  might  show  himself  all  the 
«ame  a  delightful  member  of  society. 
Yes,  he  was  probably  selfish,  like  other 
people  ;  but  unlike  most  of  them  he 
was,  somehow,  amiably,  attachingly, 
sociably,  almost  lovably  selfish. 
Without  doing  anything  great  he 
would  yet  be  a  great  success, — a  big, 
.pleasant,  gossiping,  lounging  and,  in 
its  way,  doubtless  very  splendid 
presence.  He  would  have  no  ambi- 
tion, and  it  was  ambition  that 
made  selfishness  ugly.  Hugh  and 
liis  mother  were  sure  of  this  last  point 
until  Mary,  before  whom  the  discus- 
i^ion,  when  it  reached  this  stage, 
happened  to  be  carried  on,  checked 
them  by  asking  whether  that,  on  the 
•contrary,  were  not  just  what  was 
supposed  to  make  it  fine. 

'*  Oh,  he  only  wants  to  be  comfort- 
able," said  her  brother  ;  "  but  he  does 
want." 

*  There'll  be  a  tremendous  rush  for 
him,'*  Mrs.  Gosselin  prophesied  to  her 
son. 

'*  Oh,  he'll  never  marry.  It  will  be 
too  much  trouble." 

"  It's  done  here  without  any  trouble, 
-  for  the  men.  One  sees  how  long 
you've  been  out  of  the  country." 

**  There  was  a  girl  in  New  York 
whom  he  might  have  married, — he 
really  liked  her.  But  he  wouldn't  turn 
round  for  her." 

'*  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  t\irn  round 
for  him,"  said  Mary. 

*'  1  dare  say  she'll  turn  round  now^^ 
Mrs.  Gosselin  rejoined ;  on  which 
Hugh  mentioned  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  feared  from  her,  all  the 
revolutions  had  been  accomplished. 
He  added  that  nothing  would  make 
any   difference, — so  intimate  was  his 


conviction     that      Beauprey      would 
preserve  his  independence. 

*'  Then  I  think  he's  not  so  selfish  as 
you  say,"  Mary  declared ;  "  or  at  an;j 
rate  one  will  never  know  whether  he 
is.  Isn't  married  life  the  great  chance 
to  show  it  ? " 

"  Your  father  never  showed  it," 
said  Mrs.  Gosselin;  and  as  her  chil- 
dren were  silent  in  presence  of  this 
tribute  to  the  departed,  she  added, 
smiling,  "  Perhaps  you  think  that  / 
did  !  "  They  embraced  her,  to  indicate 
what  they  thought,  and  the  conversa- 
tion ended,  when  she  had  remarked  that 
Lord  Beauprey  was  a  man  who  would 
be  perfectly  easy  to  manage  after  mar- 
riage, with  Hugh's  exclaiming  that 
this  was  doubtless  exactly  why  he 
wished  to  keep  out  of  it. 

Such  was  evidently  his  wish,  as  they 
were  able  to  judge  in  Chester  Street, 
when  he  came  up  to  town.  He  ap- 
peared there  oftener  than  was  to  have 
been  expected,  not  taking  himself,  in 
his  new  character,  at  all  too  seriously 
to  find  stray  half -hours  for  old  friends. 
It  was  plain  that  he  was  going  to  do 
just  as  he  liked,  that  he  was  not  a  bit 
excited  or  uplifted  by  his  change  of 
fortune.  Mary  Gosselin  observed  that 
he  had  no  imagination, — she  even  re- 
proached him  with  the  deficiency  to 
his  face  ;  an  incident  which  showed 
indeed  how  little  seriously  she  took 
him.  He  had  no  idea  of  playing  a 
part,  and  yet  he  would  have  been 
clever  enough.  He  wasn't  even  theor- 
etic about  being  simple ;  his  simplicity 
was  a  series  of  accidents  and  indiffer- 
ences. Never  was  a  man  more  con- 
scientiously superficial.  There  were 
matters  on  which  he  valued  Mrs.  Gosse- 
lin's  j  lodgment  and  asked  her  advice, 
— without,  as  usually  appeared  later, 
ever  taking  it ;  such  questions,  mainly, 
as  the  claims  of  a  predecessor's  serv- 
ants and  those,  in  respect  to  social 
intercourse,  of  the  clergyman's  family. 
He  didn't  like  his  parson, — what 
was  he  to  do  ?  What  he  did  like  was 
to  talk  with  Hugh  about  American 
investments,  and  it  was  amusing  to 
Hugh,  though  he  tried  not  to  show  his 


472 


L(yi'd  Beawprey, 


amusement,  to  find  himself  looking  at 
Guy  Firminger  in  the  light  of  capital. 
To  Mary  he  addressed  from  the  first 
l^e  oddest  snatches  of  confidential  dis- 
course, rendered  in  fact,  however,  by 
the  levity  of  his  tone,  considerably  less 
confidential   than    in   intention.     He 
had  something  to  tell  her  that  he  joked 
about,  yet  without  admitting  that  it 
was    any    less    important   for    being 
laughable.     It  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  that  Charlotte  Firminger,  the 
eldest  of    his  late  uDcle's  four  girls, 
had  designated  to  him  in  the  clearest 
manner  the  person  she  considered  he 
ought  to  marry.     She  appealed  to  his 
sense  of  justice,  she  spoke  and  wrote, 
or  at  any  rate  she  looked  and  moved, 
she  sighed  and  sang,  in  the  name  of 
common  honesty.     He  had  had   four 
letters  from  her  that  week,  and  to  his 
knowledge  there  were  a  series  of  people 
in  London,   people    she   could    buUy, 
whom  she  had  got  to  promise  to  take 
her  in  for  the  season.     She  was  going 
to  be  on  the  spot,  she  was  going  to 
follow  him  up.     He  took  his  stand  on 
common  honesty,  but  he  had  a  mortal 
horror  of  Charlotte.  At  the  same  time, 
when  a  girl  had  a  jaw  like  that  and 
had   marked  you, — really  marked  you, 
mind,  you  felt  your  safety  oozing  away. 
He  had  given  them  during  the  past 
three  months,  all  those  terrible  girls, 
no  end  of  presents ;  but  every  present 
had  only  been  held  to  constitute  an- 
other pledge.     Therefore  what  was  a 
fellow    to  do]     Besides,    there    were 
other  portents ;  the  air  was  thick  with 
them,  as  the  sky  over  battlefields  was 
darkened   by   the   flight  of    vultures. 
They  were  flocking,  the  birds  of  prey, 
from  every  quarter,  and   every  girl  in 
England,  by   Jove !  was   going   to  be 
thrown   at   his  head.     What  had  he 
done    to    deserve   such  a    fate?     He 
wanted  to  stop  in  England  and  see  all 
sorts  of   things    through ;    but     how 
could  he  stand  there  and  face  such  a 
scramble  ?    Yet  what  good  would  it  do 
to  bolt  ?   Wherever  he  should  go  there 
would  be  fifty  of  them  there  first.    On 
his  honour  he  could  say  that  he  didn't 
deserve  it ;  he  had  never,  to  his  own 


sense,  been  a  flirt,  such  a  flirt  as  ta 
have  given  any  one  a  handle.  He 
appealed  candidly  to  Mary  Gosselin  to 
know  whether  his  past  conduct  justi- 
fied such  penalties.  "  Have  I  been  a 
flirt? — have  I  given  any  one  a  handle  ?" 
he  inquired  with  pathetic  intensity. 

She  met  his  appeal  by  declaring  that 
he  had  been  awful,  committing  him- 
self right  and  left ;  and  this  manner  of 
treating  his  quandary  contributed  to- 
the  sarcastic  publicity  (as  regarded  the- 
little  house  in  Chester  Street)  which 
presently  became  its  element.     Lord 
Beauprey's  comical  and  yet  thoroughly 
grounded  view  of  his  danger  was  soon 
a  frequent  theme  among  the  Gosselins^ 
who,  however,  had  their  own  reasons 
for    not    communicating    the    alarm. 
They   had   no   motive  for  concealing- 
their  interest  in  their  old  friend,  but 
their  allusions   to    him   among   their 
other  friends  may  be  said  on  the  whole 
to  have  been  studied.     His  state   of 
mind  recalled  of  course  to  Mary  and 
her  mother  the  queer  talk  about  his- 
prospects  that  they  had  had  that  after- 
noon in  the  country,  in  which  Mrs. 
Gosselin  had  been  so  strangely  pro- 
phetic (she  confessed  that  she  had  had 
a  flash  of  divination ;  the  future  had 
been  mysteriously  revealed  to  her),  and 
poor  Guy  too  had  seen  himself  quite  as- 
he  was  to  be.     He  had  seen  his  nervous- 
ness, under  inevitable  pressure,  deepecL 
to  a  panic,  and  he  now,  in  intimate* 
hours,  made  no  attempt    to  disguise 
that  a  panic  had  become  his  portion. 
It  was  a  fixed  idea  with  him  that  he 
should  fall  a  victim  to  woven  toils,  be 
caught    in    a   trap   constructed   with 
superior  science.     The  science  evolved 
in  an  enterprising  age  by  this  branch 
of  industry,  the  manufacture  of  the 
trap    matrimonial,    he     had    terrible 
anecdotes  to  illustrate  ;  and  what  had 
he  on  his  lips  but   a  scientific  term 
when  he  declared,  as  he  perpetually 
did,  that  it  was  his  fate  to  be  hypno- 
tised ] 

Mary  Gosselin  reminded  him,  they- 
each  in  turn  reminded  him,  that  his 
safeguard  was  to  fall  in  love  ;  were  he 
once  to  put  himself  under  that  protec- 


L(yrd  BeaujU'ey, 


47;^ 


tiun  all  the  mothers  aud  maids  in 
INIayfair  would  not  prevail  against  him. 
lie  replied  that  that  was  just  the  im- 
l)0S6ibiIity  ;  it  took  leisure  and  calm- 
ness and  opportunity  and  a  free  mind 
to  fall  in  love,  and  never  was  a  man 
less  furnished  with  such  conveniences. 
You  couldn't  at  any  rate  do  it  d  point 
lionnne.  He  reminded  the  girl  of  his 
old  fancy  for  pretending  already  to 
have  disposed  of  his  hand,  if  he  could 
put  that  hand  on  a  young  person  who 
should  like  him  well  enough  to  be  will- 
ing to  participate  in  the  fraud.  She 
would  have  to  place  herself  in  rather 
a  false  position,  of  course, — have  to 
take  a  certain  amount  of  trouble  ;  but 
there  would  after  all  be  a  good  deal  of 
fun  in  it  (there  was  always  fun  in 
duping  the  world,)  between  the  pair 
themselves,  the  two  happy  comedians. 

"  Why  should  they  both  be  happy  ] " 
]\Iary  Gosselin  asked.  **  I  understand 
why  you  should  ;  but,  frankly,  I  don't 
(juite  grasp  the  reason  of  //er  pleasure." 

Loid  Beauprey,  with  his  clear  eyes, 
tliought  a  moment.  **  Why,  for  the 
lark,  as  they  say,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
1  >houl(l  be  awfully  nice  to  her." 

**  She  would  need  indeed  to  be  '  larky,' 
1  think  :" 

*•  Ah,  but  1  should  want  a  good  sort, 
— a  (juiet,  reasonable  one,  you  know!" 
he  somewhat  eagerly  interposed. 

'*  You're  too  delightful  I  *'  Mary 
(iosselin  exclaimed,  continuing  to 
laugh.  He  thanked  her  for  this  ap- 
prtviation,  and  she  returned  to  her 
lM)int — that  she  didn't  really  see  the 
advantage  his  accomplice  could  hope 
to  enjoy  as  her  compensation  for  ex- 
t  reme  inconvenience. 

(luy  Firminger  stai-ed.  "But  what 
extreme  inconvenience ?  " 

**  W^hv,  it  would  take  a  lot  of  time  : 
it  might  become  intolerable." 

*'  You  mean  I  ought  to  pay  her, — ^^to 
hire  her  for  the  season  ? " 

Mary  Gosselin  looked  at  him  a 
moment.  *^  W^ouldn't  marriage  come 
cheaper  at  once  ? "  she  asked  with  a 
quieter  smile. 

*'  You  are  laughing  at  me  ! "  he 
sitjlied,  forgivingly.     "Of  course   she 


would  have  to  be  good-natured  enough 
to  pity  me." 

**  Pity's  akin  to  love.  If  she  were 
good-natured  enough  to  want  so  to  help 
you,  she'd  be  good-natured  enough  to 
want  to  marry  you.  That  would  be 
her  idea  of  help." 

"  Would  it  be  yours  ?  "  Lord  Beau- 
prey  asked,  rather  eagerly. 

"You're  too  absmrd !  You  must 
sail  your  own  boat !  "  the  girl  answered, 
turning  away. 

That  evening,  at  dinner,  she  stated 
to  her  companions  that  she  had  never 
seen  a  fatuity  so  dense,  so  serene,  sa 
preposterous  as  his  lordship's. 

"  Fatuity,  my  dear  !  what  do  you 
mean  ] "  her  mother  inquired. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  you  know  perfectly." 
Mary  Gosselin  spoke  with  a  certain 
impatience. 

"  If  you  mean  he's  conceited,  I'm 
bound  to  say  I  don't  agree  with  you," 
her  brother  observed. 

"  He's  not  vain,  he's  not  proud,  he's 
not  pompous,"  said  Mrs.  Gosselin. 

Mary  was  silent  a  moment.  "  He 
takes  more  things  for  granted  than  any 
one  I  ever  saw." 

"  What  sort  of  things  1 " 
Well,  one's  interest  in  his  affairs." 
With  old  friends,  surely,  a  gentle- 
man may." 

"Of  course,"  said  Hugh  Gosselin^ 
'*  old  friends  have  in  turn  the  right  to 
take  for  granted  a  corresponding  in- 
terest on  his  part." 

"  Well,  who  could  be  nicer  to  us 
than  he  is  or  come  to  see  us  oftener  % " 
his  mother  asked. 

"  He  comes  exactly  for  the  purpose 
I  speak  of, — to  talk  about  himself," 
said  Mary. 

"  There  are  thousands  of  girls  who 
would  be  delighted  that  he  should," 
Mrs.  Gosselin  returned. 

"  We  agreed  long  ago  that  he's  in- 
tensely selfish,"  the  girl  went  on ; 
''  and  if  I  speak  of  it  to-day  it's  not 
because  that  in  itself  is  anything  of  a 
novelty.  What  I'm  freshly  struck 
with  is  simply  that  he  more  flagrantly 
shows  it." 

*'  He  shows  it,  exactly."  said  Hugh  ; 


« 


« 


474 


Lord  Beauprey, 


i 


"  he  shows  all  there  is.  There  it  is,  on 
the  surface  ;  there  are  not  depths  of  it 
underneath." 

"  He*s  not  hard,"  Mrs.  Gosselin 
contended  ;  "  he's  not  hard." 

"Do  you  mean  he's  softl"  Mary 
asked. 

"I  mean  he's  easy."  And  Mrs. 
•Gosselin,  with  considerable  expression, 
looked  across  at  her  daughter.  She 
added,  before  they  rose  from  dinner, 
that  poor  Lord  Beauprey  had  plenty 
of  difficulties  and  that  she  thought,  for 
her  part,  they  ought  in  common  loy- 
alty to  do  what  they  could  to  assist 
him. 

For  a  week  nothing  more  passed  be- 
tween the  two  ladies  on  the  subject  of 
their  noble  friend,  and  in  the  course 
•of  this  week  they  had  the  amusement 
of  receiving  in  Chester  Street  a  mem- 
ber of  Hugh's  American  circle,  Mr. 
Boston-Brown,  a  young  man  from  New 
York.  He  was  a  person  engaged  in 
Jarge  affairs,  for  whom  Hugh  Gosselin 
professed  the  highest  regard,  from 
whom  in  New  York  he  had  received 
much  hospitality,  and  for  whose  ad- 
vent he  had  from  the  first  prepared 
his  companions.  Mrs.  Gosselin  begged 
the  amiable  stranger  to  stay  with  them, 
And  if  she  failed  to  vanquish  his  hesi- 
tation it  was  because  his  hotel  was 
near  at  hand  and  he  should  be  able 
to  see  them  often.  It  became  evident 
that  he  would  do  so,  and,  to  the  two 
ladies,  as  the  days  went  by,  equally 
evident  that  no  objection  to  such  a 
relation  was  likely  to  arise.  Mr. 
Boston-Brown  was  delightfully  fresh ; 
the  most  usual  expressions  acquired  on 
his  lips  a  well-nigh  comical  novelty, 
the  most  superficial  sentiments,  in  the 
look  with  which  he  accompanied  them, 
a  really  touching  sincerity.  He  was 
unmarried  and  good-looking,  clever  and 


natural,  and  if  he  was  not  very  rich 
he  was,  at  least,  very  free-handed.  He 
literally  strewed  the  path  of  the  ladies 
in  Chester  Street  with  flowers,  he  choked 
them  with  French  confectionery. 
Hugh,  however,  who  was  often  rather 
mysterious  on  monetary  questions, 
placed  in  a  light  sufficiently  clear  the 
fact  that  his  friend  had  in  Wall  Street 
(they  knew  all  about  Wall  Street) 
improved  the  shining  hour.  They  in- 
troduced him  to  Lord  Beauprey,  who 
thought  him  "  tremendous  fun,"  as 
Hugh  said,  and  who  immediately  de- 
clared that  the  four  must  spend  a 
Sunday  at  Bosco  a  week  or  two  later. 
The  date  of  this  visit  was  fixed, — Mrs. 
Gosselin  had  uttered  a  comprehensive 
acceptance ;  but  after  Guy  Firminger 
had  taken  leave  of  them  (this  had 
been  his  first  appearance  since  the 
odd  conversation  with  Mary),  our 
young  lady  confided  to  her  mother 
that  she  should  not  be  able  to  join  the 
little  party.  She  expressed  the  con- 
viction that  it  would  be  all  that  was 
essential  if  Mrs.  Gosselin  should  go 
with  the  two  others.  On  being  pressed 
to  communicate  the  reason  of  this 
aloofness  Mary  was  able  to  give  no 
better  one  than  that  she  never  had 
cared  for  Bosco. 

"  What  makes  you  hate  him  so  ?  " 
her  mother  broke  out  in  a  moment, 
in  a  tone  which  brought  the  red 
to  the  girl's  cheek.  Mary  denied 
that  she  entertained  for  Lord 
Beauprey  any  sentiment  so  in- 
tense ;  to  which  Mrs.  Gosselin  re- 
joined with  some  sternness  and,  .no 
doubt,  considerable  wisdom  :  "  Look 
out  what  you  do,  then,  or  you'll  be 
thought  to  be  in  love  with  him  !  " 

Henry  James. 


{To  he  continued.) 


475 


THE    STRANGER    IN    THE    HOUSE. 


The  Duke  of  Wellington  was  accus- 
tomed to  say  that  the  presence  or 
absence  of  Napoleon  in  the  field  made 
i\  difference  of  forty  thousand  men.  It 
would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  form  an 
estimate  of  this  kind  as  to  the  exact 
value  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  presence  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  but  assuredly  it' 
puts  a  new  aspect  upon  even  the  most 
ordinary  business.  When  he  returned 
recently  to  the  scene  of  so  many  of 
hi8  triumphs, — and  of  not  a  few  defeats 
— his  followers  were  apparently  over- 
joyed to  see  him  ;  and  yet  he  had  not 
been  there  four-and -twenty  hours  be- 
fore a  group  of  them  disregarded  his 
advice  on  a  practical  question  of  some 
importance,  and  divided  the  House 
two  or  three  times  against  the  course 
which  he  had  recommended.  It  must 
necessarily  be  rather  trying  to  be  ex- 
posed to  these  indignities,  especially 
when  it  is  remembered  that  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Radical  party  are  so 
largely  dependent  on  Mr.  Gladstone's 
personal  efforts  and  influence.  With- 
out him  the  party  has  no  hope  of 
cohesion,  and  comparatively  little  pros- 
pect of  success.  But  when  he  en- 
deavours to  lead  them  no  inconsider- 
able section  decline  to  follow,  as  in  the 
memorable  instance  of  the  Royal 
Cxrants,  when  he  exhorted  them  to 
follow  him  into  one  lobby  and  they 
defiantly  and  ostentatiously  walked 
into  the  other.  Mr.  Gladstone  would 
have  received  no  such  treatment  as 
this  from  the  party  with  which  he  was 
formerly  associated.  The  Conserva- 
tives would  have  rendered  him  the 
tribute  of  a  loyal  support  which  is 
merely  professed  by  the  Radicals,  and 
even  thepe  professions  are  made  chiefly 
from  platforms  in  the  country.  The 
Conservatives  are  seldom  refractory 
when  they  are  properly  led.  A  man 
who  deh'berately  or  perversely  opposes 


his  leader  is  frowned  upon  by  the  rest 
of  his  party,  although  he  may  happen 
to  be  at  times  entirely  in  the  right. 
There  may  be  occasional  discontent, 
but  it  is  kept  entirely  for  private  con- 
sumption. If  Mr.  Gladstone  had  done 
half  as  much  for  the  Conservatives  as 
he  has  done  for  the  Liberals,  he  would 
now  exercise  an  absolute  supremacy. 
No  mutinous  spirits  like  those  which 
hover  on  the  flanks  of  the  Liberal 
party  would  dare  to  cross  his  path. 
No  Mr.  Labouchere  would  be  permit- 
ted to  otfer  resistance  to  his  counsels, 
or  to  sneer  at  his  authority.  And 
what  a  power  he  would  have  been  for 
the  last  twenty  years  on  the  side  of 
true  and  wise  progress,  combined  with 
the  careful  preservations  of  the  **  bul- 
warks of  the  Constitution,"  now 
nearly  submerged  !  Not  only  his  own 
history,  but  that  of  his  country,  would 
have  been  completely  changed. 

All  this  might,  and  most  prob- 
ably would,  have  happened  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  accident  of  Mr. 
Disraeli  standing  in  the  way.  There 
was  not  room  for  these  two  proud 
spirits  in  the  same  party.  Not  the 
least  strange  part  of  the  business  is 
that  at  the  critical  time  when  Mr. 
Gladstone  might  have  been  secured, 
the  Conservatives  were  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  Mr.  Disi^aeli.  In  December, 
1856,  Lord  Derby  wrote  to  Lord 
Malmesbury  :  "As  to  Disraeli's  un- 
popularity, I  see  it,  and  regret  it ;  and 
especially  regret  that  he  does  not  see 
more  of  the  party  in  private."  He 
made  them  feel  that  they  could  not 
do  without  him,  but  many  a  year  had 
to  pass  before  they  went  through  the 
form  of  professing  any  attachment  to 
him.  Probably  the  Conpervatives  of 
the  present  day  forget  all  these  things, 
if  they  ever  knew  them  ;  but  they 
cannot  shut  their  eyes  to  the  fact  that 


476 


The  Stranger  in  the  House, 


the  Badicals  are  most  fortunate  in 
having  a  chief  who  possesses  an  im- 
Tiiense  hold  upon  the  country,  and 
whose  presence  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons is,  as  I  have  said,  worth  half  an 
army.  The  Conservatives  have  no 
such  advantage.  To  the  bulk  of  the 
rank  and  file  of  their  party  through- 
out the  country,  Lord  Salisbury  is  a 
half  mythical  personage.  Doubtless 
he  lives,  for  speeches  delivered  by  him 
occasionally  make  their  appearance  in 
the  newspapers,  and  there  are  some 
people  who  have  actually  seen  him. 
But  to  the  '^  masses "  he  is  a  mere 
name,  and  not  a  name  to  conjure  with. 
Who  else  is  there  %  Mr.  Balfour.  Yes, 
but  he  has  not  yet  undergone  the  test 
of  a  long  trial,  and  already  he  begins 
to  shrink  up,  like  that  awful  peau  de 
chagrin  of  Balzac's.  Looking  into  the 
House  any  evening  now,  even  from 
my  point  of  view  as  a  stranger,  it  is 
manifest  that  something  or  other  has 
gone  wrong.  It  may  be  hard  at  first, 
and  to  the  outside  observer,  to  discern 
precisely  where  the  machinery  has 
broken  down,  but  what  is  perfectly 
obvious  is  that  there  is  no  smoothness 
in  its  working.  It  creaks  and  groans 
heavily,  and  sometimes  it  turns  out  a 
product  altogether  different  from  that 
which  was  desired  or  expected.  No- 
body seems  to  be  able  to  control  it. 
Any  one  who  has  been  in  a  heavy 
storm  at  sea  may  have  noticed  that  at 
times  the  screw  is  lifted  completely 
out  of  the  water,  and  that  it  then 
revolves  with  terrific  velocity,  but 
without  helping  the  ship  along  one 
inch.  The  sailors  call  it  a  "racer." 
That  is  what  the  House  of  Commons  is 
now,  at  least  two  or  three  times  a  week, 
— a  "  racer."  After  it  has  been  pound- 
ing and  throbbing  away  for  many  hours 
it  is  seen  to  be  in  exactly  the  same  posi- 
tion as  when  it  started.  Of  course, 
then,  we  must  conclude  that  there  has 
been  obstruction  in  one  or  other  of  its 
Protean  forms  %  Certainly  not  in  the 
first  weeks  of  the  Session.  There  was 
some  waste  of  time,  but  it  cannot 
honestly  be  laid  to  the  door  of  the  Oppo- 
sition.   And  as  for  the  Conservatives, 


they  have  not  had  a  chance  even  ta 
bleat.  The  early  annexation  of  Private 
Members'  nights  showed  them  the  use- 
lessness  of  balloting  for  a  chance  of 
bringing  in  the  motions  in  which  they 
are  interested,  and  they  have  consented 
to  be  utterly  effaced.  The  Front  Bench- 
ers have  everything  their  own  way^ 
And  that  reminds  me  to  mention  that 
once  or  twice  of  late  I  have  noticed 
an  innovation  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Courtney,  the  Chairman  of  Commit- 
tees, which  to  my  untutored  mind 
appears  to  be  eminently  wise  as  well 
as  conducive  to  the  public  interests* 
When  a  Private  Member  and  a  Front 
Bencher  have  risen  together,  Mr. 
Courtney  has  not  always  and  as  a 
matter  of  course  called  upon  the  Front 
Bencher.  He  has  given  the  unofficial 
Member  a  chance.  And  why  not  t 
The  Front  Benchers  fancy  that  the 
House  and  the  country  can  never  have 
enough  of  them,  which  I  am  convinced 
is  a  complete  delusion.  They  think 
nothing  of  talking  for  a  whole  hour^ 
simply  because  they  have  once  held 
an  office,  in  which  the  chances  are 
that  they  by  no  means  distinguished 
themselves.  The  tyranny  of  the  Front 
Bench  has  already  provoked  the  remon- 
strances of  more  than  one  able  private 
Member,  and  some  of  these  days  there 
will  be  a  formidable  rising  against 
it.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Courtney  shows 
great  good  sense  in  occasionally  ig- 
noring these  intrusive  and  trouble- 
some personages.  A  Minister  occu- 
pying an  important  position  oughts 
of  course,  to  take  the  pas,  but  the 
others  should  be  allowed  a  fair  chance 
with  the  Private  Member,  and  nothing 
more. 

This  very  difficult  matter  of  calling^ 
upon  one  person  to  address  the  House 
when  four  or  five  have  risen  at  the 
same  time  is  settled  in  a  great  measure 
by  the  character  a  Member  bears  in 
the  House,  and  this  is  a  delicate  point 
on  which  a  mere  observer  is  not  in  a 
position  to  form  a  trustworthy  opinion. 
There  is  no  one  so  pre-eminently  fitted 
to  deal  with  it  as  the  present  Speaker,. 
ISIr.    Peel.      He    watches    everybody 


The  Stranger  in  the  Hoiose, 


477 


•closely,  he  sees  all  that  is  going  on, 
and  he  is  never  at  fault  in  his  estimate 
of  men.  He  knows  precisely  how  any 
individual  Member  is  regarded  on  both 
sides  of  the  House,  he  is  strictly  im- 
partial, his  judgment  is  absolutely 
unaffected  by  prejudices  of  any  kind. 
Character  is  of  inestimable  value  in. 
any  of  the  relations  of  life,  but  nowhere 
does  it  tell  more  immediately  on  a 
raan*s  career  than  in  the  House  of 
■Commons.  Members  are  brought 
closely  into  contact  with  one  another 
in  Committee  work  and  at  other  times, 
and  the  prevailing  opinion  of  the 
House  with  regard  to  any  man  is 
seldom  wrong.  It  would  be  easy  to 
name  some  men  who  are  universally 
respected  on  both  sides,  although  it 
may  be  that  they  seldom  speak,  and 
perhaps  they  are  little  known  to  the 
public.  But  the  House  is  aware  that 
they  seldom  fail  to  exercise  good  judg- 
ment, whether  in  speaking  or  in  re- 
fraining from  speech,  and  that  their 
opinions  are  formed  upon  due  reflec- 
tion, and  are  not  flung  out  wildly  or 
without  any  sense  of  responsibility. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  Members, 
not  a  few,  whose  conceit  or  stupidity 
render  them  utterly  oblivious  to  the 
temper  and  mood  of  the  assembly 
which  they  are  addressing,  and  who 
never  have  a  moment's  doubt  that  the 
whole  world  is  waiting  with  bated 
breath  to  be  made  acquainted  with 
their  opinions.  To  suppress  them  en- 
tirely is  impossible,  for  when  every- 
body else  has  spoken  they  must  be 
heard  if  they  persist,  although  the 
House  occasionally  takes  the  law  into 
its  own  hands  and  sternly  puts  them 
<lown.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted 
that  it  uses  this  power  much  less 
fretjuently  than  it  did  in  former  days. 
But  the  rusty  weapon  was  brought 
out  on  the  night  of  the  debate  on  re- 
ceiving the  votes  of  the  "  three  Mem- 
bers," to  which  I  shall  presently  refer, 
and  the  effect  was  highly  salutary. 
The  person  who  invit.ed  the  punish- 
ment, and  who,  it  must  frankly  be 
said,  often  invites  it,  was  Mr.  Alpheus 
Cleophas  Morton,  Member  for  Peter- 


borough. The  debate  had  evidently 
closed,  and  the  House  had  made  up  its 
mind  for  a  division,  when  there  rose 
in  the  background  the  dreaded  figure 
of  Mr.  Morton.  Not  one  word  that 
he  uttered  could  be  heard.  The  House 
has  put  up  with  him  very  often,  sorely 
against  its  grain,  but  that  evening  it 
would  not  submit  to  the  infliction. 
After  struggling  for  five  minutes  or  so, 
Mr.  Morton  resumed  his  seat,  and  a 
judicious  friend  would  strongly  re- 
commend him  to  remain  quietly  in  it 
for  some  time  to  come. 

But  I  was  pointing  out  that  some- 
thing has  gone  wrong  with  the  man- 
agement of  the  House,  and  that 
is  a  very  serious  fact,  especially  at  a 
time  when  the  Ministerial  forces  have 
been  much  reduced  by  causes  into 
which  it  would  be  unprofitable  to  enter 
here.  Whose  fault  is  it  ]  There  can 
be  but  one  answer  to  the  question. 
Mr.  Balfour  has  not  yet  risen  to  the 
requirements  of  his  new  office.  He 
cannot  throw  off  the  tendencies  and 
the  habits  which  he  acquired  as  Irish 
Secretary.  He  is  still  too  prone  to 
unnecessary  **  flouts  and  jeers,'*  a 
dangerous  amusement  in  which  poor 
Mr.  Smith  never  indulged.  He  treats 
everything  in  an  indolent,  cynical, 
superficial  manner,  as  if  he  took  no 
real  interest  in  what  he  happens  to  be 
doing.  So  it  appears  to  an  outsider 
like  myself ;  but  one  who  knows  Mr. 
Balfour  well  assures  me  that  in  reality 
he  is  very  anxious  about  his  duties, 
and  that  his  devil-may-care  manner 
is  a  mere'  affectation.  Well,  then, 
what  a  pity  it  is  that  he  takes  the 
trouble  to  assume  it,  for  it  dops  not 
help  him  with  his  daily  and  nightly 
work,  it  cannot  possibly  remove  a 
single  difficulty  from  his  path,  and  it 
discourages  his  own  party  while  it 
gives  strength  and  hope  to  the  enemy. 
Surveyed  from  my  corner  in  the 
gallery  Mr.  Balfour  looks  like  a 
gentleman  who  is  being  profoundly 
bored,  and  who  wants  to  go  home  to 
bed.  If  that,  or  anything  like  it,  is 
really  his  state  of  mind,  one  cannot 
wonder  at  the  unfortunate  incidents 


478 


The  Stranger  in  the  Hmise 


which  have  thus  far  marked  his  career 
as  leader. 

As  Irish  Secretary  Mr.  Balfour  got 
into  the  way  of  making  a  good  many 
speeches,  and  most  of  them  were  neces- 
sary. But  that  same  habit  sticks  to 
him,  and  now  the  speeches  are  very 
seldom  necessary,  and  are  often  ex- 
ceedingly mischievous.  He  argues,  he 
refines,  he  holds  the  House  by  the 
button-hole  and  lectures  it,  and  worst 
of  all,  when  the  time  for  action  arrives, 
he  does  not  know  how  to  make  up  his 
mind.  The  chief  Ministerial  Whip  is 
sent  for,  and  there  is  a  consultation. 
Somebody  else  is  sent  for,  and  there  is 
another  long  and  whispered  palaver. 
A  colleague  must  be  consulted,  and  he 
cannot  be  found.  Meanwhile  the  de- 
bate is  all  drifting  on  anyhow  and  any- 
where, time  is  being  wasted,  and  the 
House  feels  itself  without  a  leader. 
Mr.  Balfour  will  even  begin  a  speech 
in  one  vein  and  finish  it  in  a  totally 
different  one.  I  must  give  an  instance 
of  which  I  was  an  eyewitness.  Three 
Members  of  the  House,  as  everybody 
knows,  unwisely  voted  for  a  grant  of 
the  public  money  to  the  Mombasa  Rail- 
way, they  being  directors  of  the  East 
Africa  Company,  and  therefore  hav- 
ing, as  was  contended,  a  direct  pecuni- 
ary and  personal  interest  in  the  scheme. 
It  is  usual,  when  such  votes  are  chal- 
lenged, to  submit  to  the  House  itself 
the  question  whether  or  not  they  shall 
be  disallowed.  That  was  the  course 
taken  on  the  present  occasion.  The 
hour  for  the  division  on  this  question 
was  at  hand,  and  Mr.  Balfour  rose  to 
close  the  discussion.  Had  he  candidly 
acknowledged  that  the  three  Members 
had  made  a  mistake  in  voting,  and 
asked  the  House  to  proceed  no  further, 
it  is  just  possible  that  the  matter 
would  have  dropped  then  and  there. 
Or  he  might  have  taken  another  course 
and  invited  his  party  to  support  the 
three  Members,  on  the  ground  that 
their  interest  in  the  railway  was  not 
of  that  direct  and  immediate  kind 
which  calls  for  special  animadversion. 
But  he  did  neither  the  one  thing  nor 
the  other.     He  began  his  speech  by 


distinctly  stating  the  Government,  **  as 
a  Government,*'  would  take  no  part  in 
the   controversy,   but  would  leave    it 
entirely  to  the  decision  of  the  House. 
And  then  he  proceeded  to  defend  the 
votes  of  the  three  Members  on  grounds 
which  were  absolutely  untenable,  and 
which  provoked  murmurs  from  some 
of  the  most  faithful  of  his  followers 
behind  him.    Moreover,  they  provoked 
Mr.  Gladstone  into  making  a  crushing 
rejoinder,  which  put  Mr.  Balfour  into 
a  corner,  and  left  him  there   bound 
and  helpless.     Mr.  Gladstone  showed 
that  the  benefit  to  be  derived  by  the 
grant    for   the   railroad   was    limited 
strictly  to  the  persons  interested  in 
the  East  Africa   Company,  and   wa& 
in  fact  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a 
proposal  "  To  reimburse  out  of  public 
funds  an  outlay  for  which  these  gentle- 
men themselves  are  personally  respon- 
sible."    Well,  then,  what  happened? 
Mr.   Balfour  having  announced   that 
Members  would  be  free  to  vote  as  they 
pleased,  a  considerable  number  of  Con- 
servatives took  him  at  his  word,  and 
either  walked  out  without  voting,  or 
went  into  the  lobby  for  disallowing^ 
the  disputed  votes.     The  result  was- 
that  Mr.  Balfour  and  his  colleagues 
found     themselves     in     a     minority,, 
although   just  before   the  division  it 
was  known  that  the  Government  had 
a  clear  majority  of  over  fifty  in  the 
House.    Mr.  Balfour  is  said  to  have  felt 
this  blow  very  keenly,  but  it  was  by 
his  own  act  that  it  fell  upon  him.     In. 
the  first  place,  he  made  a  very  inju- 
dicious speech ;   in  the  next,   he  was- 
too  timid  or  too  much  in  doubt  to  say 
plainly  to  his  party,  **  Follow  me  into- 
the   lobby."     A  party  must   be  led. 
It  is  not  safe  to  tell  it  to  d<)  as  it 
likes,  when  you  particularly  want  it 
to  go  in   a  given  direction.     II  f<mU 
qu^une   porte   soit   ouverte   ou  /erm^. 
Mr.  Balfour  has  no  decision,  and  the 
responsibilities   of    his    new   position 
appear  to  frighten  him.     He  wavers, 
hesitates,  looks  round  for  something 
to  turn  up  that  will  help  him  out  of 
his   difficulty,  and   all  the  time  tW 
House  is  slipping  out  of   his  hands. 


The  Stranger  in  tfce  House. 


47a 


No  doubt  he  will  improve  upon  all 
this,  or  **  reform  it  altogether  ; "  but  it 
will  never  be  possible  to  deny  that 
the  early  part  of  his  career  as  leader 
of  the  House  was  marked  by  some  most 
unfortunate  blunders, — blunders  for 
which  no  one  was  prepared.  And  yet 
how  often  it  happens  in  this  world 
that  a  man  who  has  done  remarkably 
well  in  one  position  breaks  down  in 
:i  surprising  manner  when  he  is  placed 
ill  another  position  for  which  a  dif- 
ferent set  of  qualities  is  required. 

It  followed  from  all  this  that  busi- 
ness made  little  if  any  progress,  and 
that  it  was  found  necessary  to  curtail 
the  privileges  of  the  unfortunate 
Private  Member,  who  is  always  se- 
lected as  the  scapegoat  for  the  faults 
of  everybody  else.  Money  had  to  be 
obtained,  and  it  was  not  an  easy  thing 
to  get,  for  it  was  required  on  a  sort  of 
peremptory  summons,  and  the  House 
of  Commons  is  a  bad  place  to  go  to  in 
that  spirit.  It  will  not  be  driven,  un- 
less the  driving  apparatus  is  very  skil- 
fully concealed.  The  army,  however, 
could  not  wait,  neither  could  the  navy, 
and  after  more  or  less  difficulty  some 
millions  were  obtained  for  both.  Mr. 
Stanhope  and  Lord  George  Hamilton 
managed  this  part  of  the  affair  very 
adroitly,  giving  just  such  explanations 
.i>  were  asked  for,  and  avoiding  travel- 
lin<:  into  regions  concerning  which  no 
entjuiry  was  being  made.  It  must 
seem  strange  to  everybody  who  thinks 
about  it  that  the  defences  of  this 
country  should  be  placed  under  the 
control  of  two  civilians,  who  usually 
eiiter  upon  their  offices  in  utter  ignor- 
ance of  everything  they  are  called 
\\\n)i\  to  administer.  Such  is  the  sys- 
tem adopted  in  this  country,  and  Par- 
liament has  more  than  once  shown  an 
extreme  jealousy  of  any  interference 
with  it.  The  Secretary  for  War  and 
tlio  First  r.ord  of  the  Admiralty  are,  of 
course.  advi.<e(i  by  pi  of essional  assist- 
ants :  bub  as  they  have  no  knowledge 
of  their  own  to  st.irt  with,  thev  are 
necessarily  in  the  hands  of  persons 
who  may  have  their  own  crotchets  to 
carry  out.  and  who  are   perhaps  more 


intent  u]:x>n  them  than  upon  bringing- 
the  **  fighting  machine  "  to  perfection. 
The  Naval  or  War  Minister  is  ex- 
pected to  defend  his  department  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  he  generally 
contrives  to  do  that  with  a  fair  measure 
of  success.  Under  the  gallery,  on  an 
important  night,  he  takes  care  to  have- 
some  of  his  most  valuable  subordinates, 
and  if  be  finds  himself  getting  out  of 
his  depth  he  can  always  place  himself 
in  communication  with  them,  and' 
secure  ample  material  with  which  to 
dislodge  and  put  to  rout  the  outside 
critic.  Mr.  Stanhope  is  a  model  offi- 
cial in  this  respect.  He  has  no  hesita- 
tion, no  misgivings.  Towards  the 
persons  who  liave  been  attacking  the 
administration  of  the  army  he  assumes 
a  tone  of  gentle  pit}',  as  of  a  man  who 
is  sorry  for  their  ignorance  and  who 
would  fain  put  them  upon  the  right  road 
if  he  could  only  get  them  there.  Eight- 
een years'  experience  of  Parliamentary 
life  has  grounded  him  thoroughly  in 
the  art  of  convincing  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  of  marshalling  his  state- 
ments so  that  no  one  shall  be  able  to- 
discover  their  weak  points  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  He  is  now  familiar 
with  the  routine  of  his  office,  and  no 
doubt  has  acquired  a  great  deal  of 
valuable  information  alK)ut  the  army. 
Presently,  therefore,  in  the  ordinar}- 
course  of  events,  he  will  have  to  retire 
and  somebody  will  be  put  in  his  place 
who  has  to  begin  learning  the  business, 
from  the  very  beginning..  Thus  far  in 
this  Session  Mr.  Stanhope  has  had  no 
more  difficult  task  to  encounter  than 
that  of  replying  to  a  long,  rambling, 
and  disjointed  attack  by  Mr.  Hanbury, 
who  has  the  misfortune  of  mistaking, 
loose  gossip  for  facts,  and  who  con- 
trives to  place  himself  at  the  mercy  of 
any  well-informed  official.  Mr.  Stan- 
ho|)e  is  quite  at  home  in  dealing  with 
a  critic  of  this  description,  and  it  was 
reallv  worth  while  to  hear  him  make 
short  work  of  Mr.  Hanbury's  long 
yarn.  A  pix)f essional  soldier  could  not 
have  done  it  half  so  well.  We  may 
not  have  so  good  an  army  as  we  ought 
to  get  for  the  money  anniially  paid  for 


480 


Tlie  Stranger  in  the  House, 


it,  but  it  certainly  has  not  deteriorated 
under  Mr.  Stanhope's  rule. 

Lord  George  Hamilton  is  not  quite 
so  deft  an  apologist,  but  he  also  has 
made  himself  master  of  most  of  the 
<letails  of  the  work  of  his  great  de- 
partment, and  he  knows  how  to  repro- 
duce his  knowledge  with  considerable 
•effect.  His  manner  is  not  so  confident 
-as  that  of  Mr.  Stanhope ;  his  flow  of 
language  is  not  so  easy ;  he  cannot 
assume  so  perfectly  the  air  of  an 
injured  innocent.  But  it  has  to  be 
borne  in  mind  that  he  has  to  meet,  not 
amateurs  like  Mr.  Hanbury,  but  pro- 
fessional men  who  know  what  they 
iu*e  talking  about.  He  therefore  has 
to  feel  his  way  along  with  considerable 
•caution.  He  has  never  made  any 
grave  mistake,  and  he  takes  good  care 
not  to  say  a  word  more  than  is 
strictly  necessary  for  his  purpose. 
Until  a  Minister  has  made  himself 
master  of  that  secret,  he  will  always 
be  in  danger  of  meeting  with  some 
unexpected  and  severe  mishap.  The 
least  said  the  soonest  mended,  runs 
the  homely  proverb,  and  never  was 
more  wisdom  packed  into  fewer  words. 
If  Mr.  Balfour  had  well  digested  it 
before  the  present  Session  opened,  he 
-would  have  spared  himself  and  his 
party  some  mortifications  and  reverses. 

The  other  evening  I  was  invited  to 
dinner  in  the  room  which  is  set  apart 
for  members  and  their  friends,  and  I 
noticed  that  the  talk  all  round  me  did 
not  turn  upon  what  was  going  on  in 
the  House,  but  upon  the  probable  time 
when  Parliament  would  be  dissolved. 
The  sands  are  running  low  in  the 
^lass,  and  many  of  the  present  Mem- 
bers know  perfectly  well  that  they  are 
•destined   to  return   no  more  to   this 


Temple  of  the  Muses.  I  failed  to  see 
any  signs  of  that  exuberance  of  spirits 
which  the  prospect  of  a  general  elec- 
tion is  supposed  to  excite.  There 
were  well  known  Gladstonians  near 
me,  but  they  seemed  by  no  means 
anxious  to  hurry  forward  the  great 
trial  of  strength.  Only  those  wei-e 
happy  who  have  made  up  their  minds 
to  retire  voluntarily  from  the  scene 
of  so  much  hard  and  thankless  work. 
People  who  have  anything  to  gain  by 
being  Members  of  Parliament  want  to 
stay  ;  those  who  have  nothing  to  gain 
get  tired  of  it  all  much  sooner  than 
they  used  to  do.  Some  Members  are 
so  overwhelmed  with  the  work  of 
replying  to  letters  that  half  the  day- 
is  gone  before  they  have  finished  with 
that  part  of  their  labours,  and  they 
may  count  themselves  lucky  if  their 
cheque-book  has  not  played  an  import- 
ant part  in  the  correspondence. 
Others  are  hunted  down  by  cadgers, 
loafers,  and  humbugs  of  all  kinds. 
Yet  some  of  these  persons  may  pos- 
sibly be  useful  at  election  time,  and 
it  does  not  do  to  run  the  risk  of  offend- 
ing anybody.  The  Metropolitan 
Members  are  the  worst  off  in  this 
respect,  because  their  constituents  live 
close  by,  and  can  drop  in,  as  it  were, 
at  any  moment.  A  wise  man  will 
take  care,  if  he  possibly  can,  to  place 
two  or  three  hundred  miles  between  him- 
self and  his  dear  friends  whose  votes 
make  him  a  Member  of  Parliament. 
So  much  have  I  learnt  from  my  occa- 
sional visits  to  the  lobby  and  the 
dining-room,  and  I  gladly  give  the 
benefit  of  my  observations  to  all  in- 
tending candidates,  whatever  their 
politics  may  happen  to  be. 


END   OF   VOL.    LXV. 


KICHARD  CLAY  AND  SONS,   LIMITED,   LONDON   AND  BUNGAY. 


February,  1892. 

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BoHant,  Walter,  Fifty  YeaM  Ago  

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MalmeBbury,  Earl  of,  Memoirs  of  an  Ex- Minister.  2  vols.* 
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2 I^IACIW 

"  'The  Bneyclop» 
dtetionary  of  the  Eni. 
It  U  fDUy  Justified  Dy 

"There  can  be  no  qi 
been  eonipleted^  and  U 

Athekjeum. 


M^/"""^— 


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THE 


OWN  SUBSCRIPTIONS  trr.^ 

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from  Two  Guineas  y. 

E  T^  SUBSCRIPTIONS  from  Twn 
«  friends  may  unite  in  One  Bn"* 
cost  of  carriage. 

IDICTjt^^^^    BOXES    GRAT'i 

^opk  Clubs  supplied  on 

A  New  and  Exhaustive  Work  of  Befer^ct  to  the  TtIS' -^•*^'  •/  ^<^^  Sfratie  ana  ^ 
Account  of  their  Origin,  History^  Meaning,  Proii'm 

Illustrations.    \^  T.  S     O  P     B 1 

The  ENCYCLOP-ffiDIC  DICTIONARY  is  the  largest,  T^CULATION  IN 
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■r:t 


world. 


Amongst  the  distinctive  features  of  this  exhaustive  work  of  reference^Mjut    , , 


•  • 


1.  Its  thoronghly  encyclopsBdic  character,  the  '*£ncyclop8Bdic3||erature. 

not  only  a  comprehensive  dictionary,  but  also  a  complete  Encyclopflsdia  to 
knowledge.  '^pvo.p 

2.  Its  comprehensiveness  and  wideness  of  range,  not  only  modem  wo 

of  an  ordinary  or  of  a  technical  and  scieuti&c  nature,  fiutiing  a  place  in  the  wor^P^' 
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its  various  meanings  and  uses  ai^e  traced  out,  and  shown  to  the  reader  by  Ulustrativ 
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simple,  and  at  the  same  time  of  such  a  nature  as  to  show  clearly  and  readily  the  minutes, 
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7.  The  large  increase  in  the  number  of  words  registered. 

8.  The  numerous  pictorial  illustrations,  although  eminently  artistic  in  character, 
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EDITBD  BT  ARCHIBALD  GROVX. 

A  MONTHLY  REVIEW  OP  POLITICS,  SCIENCE,  ART,  AND  LITERATURE. 

CONTENTS  OF  FEBRUARY  ISSUE: 

studies  in  Character :  H.RH.  the  Duke  of  Clarence  and  Avondale,  K.G. 
Wotton  Reinfred :    Chaps.  IV.  and  V.     An  Unpublished  Novel     By 

THOMAS  CARLYLE.     {To  be  concluded.) 

The  Labour  Platform  :  New  Style.    I.    By  Tom  Mann. 

II.    By  Ben  Tillett. 
The  Simian  Tongue.    By  Professor  B.  L.  Garner. 

Discipline  and  the  Army.    By  General  Sir  George  W.  Higginson, 

e.c.b. 
On  Literary  Collaboration.     By  Walter  Besant. 

Three    Wars :    Personal    Recollections.      By    Emile    Zola.      (To    he 

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Literature    I  By  Andrew  Lang. 

and         > 
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Doyle,  Sir  F.  H.,  Reminiscences  and  Opinions  of,  1813—1885 ~ 

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FaUoux,  Count  de,  Memoirs  of.    Edited  by  C.  B.  Pitman.    2  vols 

Forster,  Rt.  Hon.  W.  E.,  Life  of,  by  T.  W.  Reid.    2  vols 

Forsyth,  Sir  Douglas  :  Autobiography  and  Reminiscences.    Edited  by  his  Daughter      

Frith,  W.  P.,  My  Ai>tobiogra]>hy  and  Reminiscences.    2  vols.  

George  Eliot,  Life  of.    Arranged  by  J.  W.  Cross.    3  vols 

Gilchrist,  Anne,  Her  Life  and  Writings.    Edited  by  H.  H.  Gilchrist 

'  Gretton,  F.  E.,  Memory's  Hark  back  through  Half-a-Century,  ISOS — 1858 

J                         Greville  Memoirs,  The.    (Second  Part.)    Journal  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  from  1837 — 
1  1852.  by  C.  C.  F.  Greville.    8  vols 

(Third  Part).  Journal  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  from  1862— 1860. 

^  Vl/lo*    •«•       •••       •••       •••       •*«       •••       •••       •••       •«•       ••• 

Hatherley,  Lord,  A  Memoir  ot    Edited  by  his  Nephew.    2  vols 

,  Hayward,  Abraham,  Q.C.,  Letters  of;  from  1834—1884.    Edited  by  H.  E.  Carlisle.    2  vols. 

;  Houghton,  Lord  (Richard  Monckton  Milnes),  Life,  Letters,  and  Friendships,  by  T.  W.  Reid. 

M  Vi/XO«   •••      •••      •••      •••      •••      ••«      ••«      •••      •••      ••«       •••       •••      •••      ••• 

Iddesleigh,  First  Earl  of.  Life,  Letters,  and  Diaries.    2  vols 

j  Kemble,  F.  A.,  Further  Records,  1848—1883 :  a  series  of  Letters.    2  vols.   .«        

^  —^-^——'  Records  of  Later  Life.    3  vols «        

Lytton,  Lady  Rosina,  Life  of,  by  Devey 

t  Lord  Edward,  Life  of.    Vols.  I.  and  II 

\  Malmesbury,  Earl,  Memoirs  of  an  Ez-Minister.     2  vols 

Mapleson  Memoirs,  1848 — 1888.    2  vols.       ... ... 

Mellon,  Miss,  Memoirs  of  Duchess  of  St  Albans,  by  Mrs.  C.  B.  Wilson.    2  vols 

Motley,  John  L.,  The  (correspondence  ot    Edited  by  G.  W.  Curtis.    2  vols. 

Newman,  Cardinal,  Letters  and  Correspondence  of.    Edited  by  A.  Mozley.    2  vols 

(  Pattison,  Rev.  Mark,  Memoirs  of       

•'  Pollock,  Sir  F.,  Personal  Remembrances.    2  vols,  

Prince  Consort,  The  Life  of,  by  Theo.  Martin.    Vols.  III.  to  V.  each 

\  Ramsay,  Lient-CoL  B.  D.  W.,  Rough  Recollections  of  the  Military  Service  and  Society.    2  vols. 

=i  Reminiscences  of  a  Literary  and  a  Clerical  Life,  by  the  Author  of  *'  Three  Cornered  Essays." 

M  V vlB«    ••  •       •••       •••       •••       ••■       ••*       •••       •••       •••       •••       •••       •••       •••       ••• 

Rogers  and  his  Contemporaries,  by  P.  W.  Clayden.    2  vols 

;  Ross,  Janet,  Three  (fenerations  of  Englishwomen.    2  vols 

Russell,  Lord  John,  The  Life  of,  by  Spencer  Walpole.    2  vols.  

Schumann,  Robert,  The  Life  of,  Told  in  his  Letters.    Translated  by  M.  Herbert.    2  vols. 
Sedgwick,  Rev.  Adam,  The  life  and  Letters  of,  by  J.  W.  Clark  and  T.  McKenny.    2  vols. 

Sheridans,  Lives  of,  by  P.  Fitzgerald.     2  vols 

Sothem,  Edward  Askew,  A  Memoir  of,  by  T.  E.  Pemberton 

Taylor,  Henry,  Autobiography  of,  1800—1875.    2  vols 

Trench,  Archbishop  R.  Chenevix.  Letters  and  Memorials.    2  vols 

Ti'oUope,  T.  A.,  What  I  Remember.    2  vols.  

«  wA«  XXX*       •••      •••      •••       ■••      •••      •••      •••      ••• 

Tulloch,  Principal,  Memoir  of,  by  Mrs.  Oliphant 

Verestchagin,  VassUi,  Painter,  Soldier,  Traveller.    Translated  by  F.  H.  Peters.     2  vols 

Washbume,  E.  B.  Kecollections  of  a  Minister  in  France.    2  vols 

Westbury,  Lord  R.,  Life  of,  by  T.  A.  Nash.    2  vols 

Williams.  Montagu,  Leaves  of  a  Life.    2  vols 

Later  Leaves,  being  the  Further  Reminiscences  of       


J 


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29  AND  30  Bedford  Street,  Covent  Gardfv, 
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\To  be  published  on  March  27. 

Professor  Huxley. 

Essays  on  Some  Controverted  Questions. 

With  a  Prologue.     By  Professor  HuXLEY.     8vo. 

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A  Picture  of  Pauperism,  with  Some  Remarks 

on  the  Endowment  of  Old  Age.   By  Charles  Booth.    Crown  8vo. 

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Neohellenica.     Dialogues  in   Modern   Greek 

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anb  Sijrpenn^  Settes. 

Walks  and    Talks,   Travels  and   Exploits  of 

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By  Rev.  J.  C.  Atkinson,  D.C.L.,  Canon  of  York.  Author  of 
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Playhours    and    Half-holidays ;    or,    Further 

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By  Major  Gambier  Parry. 

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The  Late  Professor  F.  D.  Maurice. 

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In  the  Days  of  Thy  Youth. 

Saintly  Workers. 

Epiiphatha. 

Mercy  and  Judgment. 

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Problems  in    Greek    History. 

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Rambles  and  Studies  in  Greece. 

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MESSRS.  MACMILLAN  AND  CO/S  ANNOUNCEMENTS.         17 

Walter  Leafy  Litt.D. 

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Cambridge.     Crown  8vo. 

John  Richard  Green. 

A  Short  History  of  the  English  People. 

By  John  Richard  Green.     Illustrated,  in  Monthly  Parts,  from 
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Parts  /.,  //.,  ///.,  /F.,  K,  VL  now  ready, 

Stopford  A.  Brooke,  M.A. 

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By  the  Rev.  Stopford  A.  Brooke,  M.A.    2  vols.    8vo. 

6olben  XTteaeut^  Series,    flew  IDoIume. 

Balthasar  Gracian's  Art  of  Worldly  Wisdom. 

Translated  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS. 

^be  (Bolben  XTteasut^  Series. 

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A  New  and  Uniform  Edition  of  Dr.  A.  R.  JVallace^s 

JVorks. 

Island  Life ;  or,  The  Phenomena  and  Causes 

of  Insular  Faunas  and  Floras. 

Including  a  Revision  and  attempted  Solution  of  the  Problem  of 

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and  Maps.     New  and  Cheaper  Edition.     Extra  Crown  8vo.     6s, 

*»*  A  uniform  series  of  some  of  Mr.  Wallaces  leading  contributions  to  the  litercUurc 
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3dition. 

C 


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•1 


ri 


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I  ■ 


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Professor  C.  F.  Bastable. 

Public  Finance. 

By  C.    F.    Bastable,  Professor  of  Political  Economy  at  Trinit) 
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J.  H.  Bernard^  B.D. 

Kant's  Kritik  of  Judgment. 

Translated  by  Rev.  J.  H.  Bernard,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College 
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j  trated.     Crown  Svo. 

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Experimental  Evolution. 

By  Henry  de  Varigny,  D.Sc. 

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The  Diseases  of  Modern  Life. 

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Aristotle. — The  Nicomachean  Ethics. 

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*^*   Uniform  with  Mr.   Welldon^s   Translation  of  Aristotl^s  Rhetoric^   already 

published. 


I 


I 


I. 


MESSRS.  MACMILLAN  AND  CO.'S  ANNOUNCEMENTS.         19 


CLASSICAL   LIBRARY.— NEW  VOLUME. 

Pindar. — Isthmian  Odes. 

By  J.  B.  Bury,  M.A.,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 
*^*  A  companion  Volu^ne  to  Mr,  Rurfs  recent  edition  of  the  Nemean  Odes. 

IV.  J.  Hickie. 

A  Lexicon  to  the  Greek  Testament 

By  W.  J.  HlCKlE.     Fcap.  8vo. 

*#*  A  companion  volume  to  the  smaller  edition  of  The  New  Testament  in  Greeks 
edited  by  Bishop  Westcott  and  Dr,  Hort, 

ELEMENTARY    CLASSICS.— NEW  VOLUMES. 

Euripides. — M  edea. 

Edited  with  Notes  and  Vocabulary,  by  Rev.  M.  A.  BAYFIELD,  M.A., 
Head  Master  of  Christ's  College,  Brecon. 

Livy. — Book  V. 

Edited,  with  Notes  and  Vocabulary,  by  Miss  MARGARET  Alford. 

m 

Edited  by  Dr.  Rutherford. 

MACMILLAN'S    GREEK     COURSE.— NEW 

VOLUME. 

Exercises  in  Greek  Syntax. 

By  Rev.  G.  H.  Nall,  M.A.,  Assistant  Master  at  Westminster. 

*^*  The  ij^f'cat  success  of  Dr.  Rutherford's  First  Greek  Syntax  has  induced  the  pub- 
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this  Syntax.  'I  he  book  is  divided  into  chapters  and  sections  corresponding  precisely 
"ivith  the  divisions  in  the  Syntax. 

H.   G.   Dakyns. 

Xenophon. — Complete  Works. 

Translated,  with  Introductions  and  Notes,  by  H.  G.  Dakyns,  M.A., 
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**  Revenues." 

C  2 


20         MESSRS.  MACMILLAN  AND  CO/S  ANNOUNCEMENTS. 

History  Readers  for  Elementary  Schools. 

Adapted  to  the  several  Standards. 

[Standards  II L  and  IV.  now  Ready, 

Dr.   L.    Kellner. 

Historical  Lessons  in  English  Syntax. 

By  L.  Kellner,  Ph.D. 
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Macmillan's  English  Classics.    New  Volumes. 

Tennyson. — The  Princess. 

Edited,  with  Introduction  and  Notes,  by  P.  M.  Wallace. 

Tennyson. — Gareth  and   Lynette. 

Edited,  with  Introduction  and  Notes,  by  G.  C.  Macaulay,  M.A., 
formerly  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

The  Geography  of  the  British  Colonies. 

Canada.    By  George  M.  Dawson. 

Australia    and   New    Zealand.    By  Alexander  Sutherland. 

Globe  8vo.  \Maanillafis  Geographical  Series, 

Commercial  German. 

By  F.  C.  Smith.     Globe  8vo.  [Commercial  Education  Series, 


*  * 

* 


tt 


Uniform  with  Mr.  Gibbins's  lately  published  ^^  Commercial  History  of  Europe. 
The  second  instalment  of  a  series  of  books  on  Commercial  Education  which 
have  been  designed  to  meet  the  growing  demand  for  Commercial  Education  in 
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Oliver  Heaviside. 


Scientific    Papers. 

By  Oliver  Heaviside.    8vo. 


MESSRS.  MACMILLAN  AND  CO.'S  ANNOUNCEMENTS.         21 

jR.  B.  Haywardj  M,A.y  F.R.S. 

The    Algebra    of     Co-Planar    Vectors    and 

Trigonometry. 

By  R.  B.  Hayward,  M.A.,  F.R.S.,  Assistant  Master  at  Harrow. 
Crown  8vo. 

P.  Goyen. 

Key   and  Students'    Companion    to    Higher 

Arithmetic  and  Elementary  Mensuration. 

By  P.  GOYEN,  Inspector  of  Schools,  Dunedin,  New  Zealand. 
Crown  8vo. 

Professor  IV.  H.  H.  Hudson  and  Barnard  Smith. 

Arithmetic  for  Schools. 

By  Barnard  Smith,  M.A.,  late  Fellow  and  Bursar  of  St.  Peter's 
College,  Cambridge  ;  carefully  revised  in  accordance  with  modern 
methods  by  W.  H.  H.  HUDSON,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Mathematics, 
King's  College,  London. 

*J^  The  original  edition  will  still  be  kept  on  sale  for  those  who  prefer  it, 

J.  Landauer. 

Blowpipe  Analysis. 

By  J.  Landauer.  Authorized  English  Edition  by  J.  Taylor  and 
W.  E.  Kay,  of  the  Owens  College,  Manchester.  New  Edition, 
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Amy  Johnson. 

Nature's  Story  Books.     I.   Sunshine. 

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*,*  The  first  of  a  series  of  books  intended  to  present  some  leading  scientific  principles 
in  such  a  form  as  to  arouse  the  interest  of  children.  As  far  as  possible  Miss  Johnson 
has  drawn  her  illustrations  from  common  things^  and  has  devised  her  experiments  t(y 
suit  the  simplest  apparatus. 


22 MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.'s  New  Books. 


PROFESSOR  HERKOMER,  R.A. 
4to.     £2  2s.  net. 

Etching  and   Mezzotint  Engraving. 

Oxford  Lectures  by  Hubert  Herkomer,   R.A.,   Slade  Professor  of  Fine  Art  in  the 
University  of  Oxford.     With  Illustrations. 

*,*  Tht  following  table  of  contents  and  table  of  Illustrations  will  give  some  idea  of  Professor  Herkomet's 
new  book,  which  is  sure  to  excite  great  interest  and  attention,  and  that  not  exclusively  in  artistic  circles. 
Contents  ;  Painter-Etching  ;  A  new  White  Ground  for  Positive  Process  ;  The  Transfer;  The  IVork  on  the 
Plate  ;  The  Acid  Bath  ;  Cleaning  the  Plate  ;  The  Transparent  Ground  ;  The  Work  on  the  Plate  through  the 
Second  Ground ;  Drv-Point;  The  Burin;  Further  Auxiliaries  to  Etching ;  Printing;  The  Ink;  The  Wiping 
of  the  Plate;  The  Paper;  Selection  of  Subjects  ;  The  Sale  of  Etchings  ;  Mezzotint  Engraving;  The  Rocking 
Tool;  The  Mezzotint  Ground;  The  Scraper;  On  the  Chartuter  of  Mezzotint ;  On  the  Interpretation  of 
Pictures :  Pure  Mezzotint ;  Etching  as  a  Medium  for  Interpretation  of  Pictures.  Illustrations  :  The 
Etcher;  A  Pen  Etching ;  A  Bavarian  Peasant,  I.  If.;  A  Charterhouse  Study ;  Gwenddydd ;  A  Study;  A 
Portrait,  I.  II.  ;  A  Mezzotint;  The  Rocking  Tools;  Rocking  a  Mezzotint  Ground :  A  "  Spongotype." 

GRAPHIC : — "  It  is  a  work  of  the  very  first  importance  and  of  absorbing  interest  to  ever>'  one  interested  in 

one  of  the  most  complete  and  beautiful  means  of  expression  at  the  artist's  command It  is  a  practical  guide  to 

the  practice  of  etching,  dry-point,  and  mezzotint — a  lucid  exposition  and  a  trustworthy  councillor.'' 

DAILY  NEWS :—**  Kxkowltdzt  of  the  subject,  enthunasm  for  it,  a  clear  style  and  a  certain  authority  of 
pronouncement  attract  and  retain  the  reader." 

TIMES : — "  It  will  instruct  the  general  art-loving  public  and  delight  by  its  beautiful  illustrations." 

NEW  BOOK   BY   GEORGE   MEREDITH. 
Extra  fcap.  8vo,  5^. 

Modern  Love;  a  Reprint:  The  Sage  Enamoured, 

AND  THE  HONEST  LADY.     By  George  Meredith. 

SIR  JAMES  FITZJAMES  STEPHEN. 
First  and  Second  Series.     Globe  8vo,  5^.  each. 

Horae  Sabbaticae. 

Essays  Reprinted  from  the  Saturday  Review,     By  Sir  James  Fitzjames  Stephen,  Bart 

TIMES  .•—"The  essays  themselves  are  well  worthy  of  collection  and  republication  in  a  permanent  form.  There 
is  nothing  ephemeral  about  the  work  of  so  diligent  a  student,  so  independent  a  thinker,  and  so  masculine  a  writer 
as  Sir  James  Stephen." 

GLOBE: — "The  style,  in  general,  is  pleasant;  the  knowledge  by  which  it  is  informed  is  deep  and  genuine 

The  essays  certainly  well  deserved  their  rescue  from  obliWon." 

SCOTSMAN:—''  Able  historical  studies." 

MISS  NORTH. 
Two  vols.     Extra  Crown  8vo,  17^.  net. 

Recollections  of  a  Happy  Life. 

Being  the  Autobiography  of  Marianne  North.     Edited  by  her  sister,  Mrs.  J.  A.  Symonds. 
With  Portraits. 

TIMES : — "A  book  which  will  delight  and  entertain  many  readers." 

GLOBE  : — "Written  with  much  vivacity'  and  honJiomie,  and  makes  agreeable  reading." 

Z?^/i^r  C/f.^OA^/CZ.£;—*' This  is  a  book  which  will  live The  book  is  quite  unique;  to  review  it  at  all 

adequately  in  our  columns  would  be  impossible." 

SCOTSMAN : — "  Her  chapters  are  a  continual  feast  for  the  botanist  and  naturalist." 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS.  23 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co/s  New  Books. 

REGINALD  BLOMFIELD  AND  F.  INIGO  THOMAS. 
Extra  crown  8vo.    Js.  6d.  net 

The   Formal   Garden  in  England. 

By  Reginald  Blomfield  and  F.  Inigo  Thomas.     With  Illustrations. 

GLOBE  : — *'  A  charminR  little  book — charminj;  alike  in  the  letterpress  and  in  the  illustrative  drawings." 

SCOTSMAN :—"  A  hcauiiful  subject  is  beautifully  treated." 

AfA  NCH ESTER  GUARDIAN:--''  A  delightful  little  book." 

TIMES  :—"  A  charming  book,  full  of  delightful  illustrations." 

OBSER  VER  : — "  A  delightful  little  volume  which  no  country  house  should  exclude.  It  is  a  complete  hand- 
book to  garden  design  and  all  its  accessories  such  as  bowling-^reezu,  sun-dials,  and  ornaments ;  and  it  is  quite 
beautLfuIly  illustrate.  .  .  .  The  book  is  a  gem,  the  study  of  it  cannot  fail  to  benefit  everyone,  who  takes  an 
interest  in  their  gardens,  be  they  large  or  small." 

SA  TURDAY  REyiEW  :—*'T\\t.  reviewer's  difficulty  with  this  book  consists  in  the  fact  that,  at  whatever 
pa^e  we  open,  the  desire  is  not  so  much  to  express  an  opinion  as  to  quote  and  to  go  on  quoting.' 

NEW  VOLUME  OF  THE   **  ENGLISH  MEN  OF  ACTION." 

Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d. 

Montrose. 

By  Mowbray  Morris.  [With portrait. 

TIMES :—"  A  singularly  vivid  and  careful  picture  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  figures  in  Scottish  history." 

DA  IL  Y  CHRONICLE :— "  Mr.  Morris  has  done  his  work  in  a  most  workmanlike  and  judicious  manner,  and 
has  left  little  for  the  critic  but  acquiescence." 

SCOTSMAN:—'*  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris  has  performed  his  task  with  admirable  judgment  and  a  well-balanced 
temper,  and  has  given  us  a  monograph  of  high  literary  excellence.  ...  A  clear  and  terse  risumi  of  the  life  and 
times  of  Montrose,  and  a  striking  and,  on  the  whole,  smsularly  just  presentment  of  his  character." 

SCOTTISH  LEADER  ;— *^It  is  a  career  that  lends  itself  to  the  telling,  and  in  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris  it  has 
found  a  narrator  at  once  careful  and  spirited  and  s)'mpathetic  above  all." 

NATIONAL  OBSERVER  ;— ''Mr.  Morris  has  done  an  admirable  piece  of  work  ...  an  important  con- 
tribution to  history  ...  a  living  picture  of  one  of  the  most  fascinating  figures  in  the  story  of  these  Islands." 

STAR  : — "The  romantic  history  of  the  great  Montrose  has  nowhere  been  told  with  sunpler  beauty  or  greater 
charm  " 

A  BERDEEN  FREE  PRESS  ;— "  A  clear,  and  indeed  fasdoatiiig  picture." 

NEW  VOLUME  OF  "TWELVE  ENGLISH  STATESMEN. •• 

Crown  8vo,  cloth,  2s,  6d, 

Queen   Elizabeth. 

By  Edward  Spencer  Beesly,  Professor  of  History,  University  College,  London. 

SCOTTISH  LEADER  :~"  As  the  study  of  a  career  of  statesmanship  pure  and  simple,  the  book  is  one  of  the 
best  of  the  series  to  which  it  belongs." 

OBSER  VER  ;— ••  Mr.  Beesjy's  monograph  is  both  clever  and  picturesque." 

ST.  JAMES'S  GAZETTE :—"  AhU,  penetrating,  and  ixidepeDdent  ...  an  eminently  satisfactory  piece 
of  VI  >rk." 

CI.ASGOlVMArL  :— "  It  is  more  than  a  life  of  Queen  Elisabeth,  it  isa  valuable  political  historyof  her  time." 

TIMES ;— •*  It  is  well  worthy  of  the  excellent  series  in  which  it  finds  itself." 

GLOBE :— '*  Prof.  Beesly  has  achieved  his  task  with  considerable  literary  skill.  His  style  is  crisp  and  vivid, 
and  it  presents  in  agreeable  form  the  results  of  research  both  wide  and  deep. 

A.  J.  BUTLER,  M.A. 
Crown  8vo,  12s.  6(L 

The  Inferno  of  Dante. 

Translated,  with  a  Commentary,  by  A.  J.  Butler,  M.  A. 

•»•  Uniform  with  Mr.  Butler^ s  editiona  of  "  Purgatorio,*'  and  "  Paradiso." 

MACMILLAN     AND    CO.,     LONDON. 


M 


i      ■ 


24  MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co/s  New  Books. 

NEW  VOLUME  OF  PROFESSOR  FREEMAN'S  HISTORICAL  ESSAYS. 

8vo,  I2s.  6d. 

Historical  Essays. 

ByE.  A.  Freeman,  D.C.L.,  LL.D.,  Regius  Professor  of  Modern  History,  Oxford.  Fourth 
Series. 

SIR  CHARLES  DILKE  AND  SPENSER  WILKINSON. 

Crown  8vo,  3J.  6d. 

Imperial   Defence. 

By  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  Charles  W.  Dilke,  Bart.,  Author  of  **  Greater  Britain  "  and 
"Problems  of  Greater  Britain,"  and  Spenser  Wilkinson,  Author  of  "Citizen  Soldiers  " 
and  "  The  Brain  of  an  Army." 

Now  published,  fcap.  8vo,  cloth,  5j. 

Poems  by  William  Watson. 

*»*  Mainly  a  reprint  of  the  Second  Edition  0/  *'  Wordsworth's  Grave  "  and  other  Poems^  with  the  addition 
of  twenty-six  short  pieces^  most  of  which  have  already  been  contributed  to  periodicals. 

NEW  AND  ENLARGED  EDITION. 
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Ancient  Facts  and  Fictions  concerning  Churches 
and  Tithes. 

By  Roundell,  Earl  of  Selborne,  Author  of  "A  Defence  of  the  Church  of  England 
against  Disestablishment."  Second  Edition,  with  a  Supplement  containing  Remarks  on  a 
Recent  History  of  Tithes. 

THE  MOZART  CENTENARY. 
Now  ready,  crown  Svo,  cloth,  2s.  6cl,  net. 

A    Record    of  the  Cambridge  Centenary  Com- 

MEMORATION  ON  DECEMBER  4  and  5,  1891,  OF  WOLFGANG  AMADE 
MOZART,  born  January  27,  1756,  died  December  5,  1791.  Edited  by  Sedley  Taylor, 
M.A.,  Senior  Vice-President  of  the  Cambridge  University  Musical  Society. 

Now  ready,  8vo,  cloth,  12s.  net. 

Kalm's  Account  of  his  Visit  to  England  on  his 
Way  to  America  in  1748. 

Translated  by  Joseph  Lucas.     With  2  Maps  and  several  Illustrations. 

NEW  VOLUMES  OF  MACMILLAN'S  THREE-AND-SIXPENNY  SERIES. 

Crown  8vo,  cloth,  3^.  6d.  each. 

Two    Penniless     Princesses. 

By  CHARLOTTE  M.  YONGE. 

He  That  Will  Not  When  He  May. 

By  Mrs.  OLIPHANT,  Author  of  "The  Railway  Man,"  "Kirsteen." 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS.  25 


Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.'s  New  Books. 

HENRY  JEPHSON. 
Two  vols.  8vo.     30J.  net. 

THE       PLATFORM:       ITS      RISE      AND 
PROGRESS. 

By  Henry  Jephson. 

TIMES. — '•  Mr.  Jephson  is  undoubtedly  the  first  vrriter  to  treat  the  platform  systematically  and  to  study  it  in 
its  historical  development  and  constitutional  bearing.  .  .  .The  interest  and  importance  of  the  book  are  great,  and 
its  merits  conspicuous.  .  .  .  The  historical  facts  and  their  sequence  are  well  displayed,  and  Mr.  Jephson's 
industry  and  research  are  worthy  of  high  commendation." 

DAILY  TELEGRAPH. — "To  Englishmen  of  every  social  class  few  books  of  the  day  can  be  as  largely 
fraught  with  interest" 

GLOBE. — "  Mr.  Jephson  is  entitled  to  the  credit  of  having  hit  upon  a  new  subject,  and  of  having  dealt  with 
it  fully  and  carefully." 

ST.  JAMES'S  GAZETTE.^'*  His  book  is  full  of  interesting  information." 

SA  TURDA  Y REVIEW.—'*  Mr.  Henry  Jephson  had  a  happy  thought  when  it  occurred  to  him  to  write  the 
history  of  the  platform— otherwise  of  public  meetings  on  political  questions— in  England.  He  has  carried  out 
that  idea  with  exhaustive  research  and  industry,  and  with  skill  and  discretion.  .  .  .  Any  future  writer  on  the 
same  subject  must  follow  his  guidance  and  use  the  materials  which  he  has  collected,  to  which  he  will  find 
litUe  to  add." 

MANCHESTER  EXAMINER.— *\K  really  important  addition  to  our  constitutional  history.  .  .  .  His 
excellently  told  story  of  the  rise  of  the  political  platform  will  have  an  abiding  interest  for  all  who  care  to  under- 
stand how  we  came  Dy  this  modem  England  of  ours." 

MANCHESTER  GUARDIAN.— '*Wiii\tiaQl  quite  able  to  agree  with  Mr.  Jephson  on  some  points  we 
thank  him  for  his  instructive  volumes,  and  heartily  commend  them  to  our  readers." 

SCOTSMAN. — "  The  book  is  one  of  much  value  for  historical  and  reference  purposes." 

GLASGOW  HERALD. — "  Mr.  Jephson's  history  has  gone  into  the  subject  with  a  thoroughness,  a  fulness  of 
detail,  and  an  impartiality  of  treatment  which  deserve  the  highest  praise  and  give  it  the  position  of  an  authoritative 
and  standard  work." 

MANCHESTER  COURIER.-^**  The  volumes  teem  with  interest  of  a  universal  kind,  and  the  ability  shown 
by  Mr.  Jephson  in  marshallins;  his  overwhelmingly  numerous  facts  is  truly  admirable.  The  book  is  truly  historical, 
but  is  as  interesting  as  a  romance." 

NEWCASTLE  LEADER.-^**  In  writing  the  history  of  the  platform,  Mr.  Jephson  has  broken  entirely  fresh 
ground.    His  book  is  full  of  good  matter." 

LIVERPOOL  MERCURY.'-"  Th^  nature  of  this  work  scarcely  suggests  sufficiently  the  scope  of  these 
noble  volumes.  They  comprise  the  history  of  every  notable  political  movement  in  this  country  from  the  accession 
of  George  III.  downwards  to  within  the  last  ten  years.  This  history  takes  its  colour  from  the  platform  speeches 
of  the  various  leaders  in  these  successive  movements,  one^  consequence  of  which  is  an  amount  of  vivacity,  a 
breadth  of  exposition,  and  a  manly  toleration  of  diverse  opinions  that  lend  to  the  work  a  wonderful  freshness.  .  .  « 
"^e  work  ought  to  meet  with  a  specially  warm  welcome  from  the  newspaper  press  itself." 

DUBLIN  EXPRESS. — "  To  trace  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  platform  the  author  has  devoted  great  industry, 
wide  political  knowledge,  and  no  little  research." 

PART  FOR  1891. 
Now  ready,  8vo,  sew  ed,  is.  ;  cloth,  is.  (nf. 

Annals  of  our  Time  for   1891.     Vol.  III.,  Part 
II.,  for  1 89 1. 

By  H.  Hamilton  Fyfe. 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO..   LONDON. 


a6 MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 

Messrs.  Macmilun  &  Co.'s  New  Books. 

NEW  AND  CHEAPER  EDITION. 
2  vols.,  crown  8vo,  cloth,  los.  net. 

Life    of  Archibald    Campbell    Tait,  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury. 

By  RANDALL   THOMAS  DAVIDSON,   D.D.,   Bishop  of  Rochester,   late  Dean   of 
Windsor,  and  WILLIAM  BENHAM,  B.D.,  Hon.  Canon  of  Canterbury.     Third  Edition. 

NEW  AND  CHEAPER  EDITION. 
Globe  8vo,  Ss. 

The   Oxford  Movement.     Twelve  Years,    1833- 
1845. 

By  the  late  R.   W.   Church,    D.C.L.,   Dean  of  St.   Paul's,   Honorary  Fellow  of  Oriel 
College,  Oxford. 

\*  A  new  volume  of  the  uniform  edition  of  Dean  Churches  Miscellaneous   Works. 

BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR. 
Crown  8vo,  6j. 

Village  Sermons  preached  at  Whatley. 

By  the  late  R.  W.  Church,  D.C.L.,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 

THE  BISHOP  OF  DERRY  AND  RAPHOE. 

Crown  8vo,  6j. 

The  Leading  Ideas  of  the  Gospels. 

By  the  Right  Rev.  William  Alexander,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Derry  and  Raphoe.     New 
Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged. 
MANCHESTER  GUARDIAN  :—**  In  its  new  form  U  likely  to  be  even  increasingly  popular." 

THE  BAIRD  LECTURE  FOR  1891. 
Crown  8vo,  7^.  6d. 

The  Ascension  and  Heavenly  Priesthood  of  Our 
Lord. 

By  William  Milligan,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Divinity  and  Biblical  Criticism  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Aberdeen.     Author  of  **  The  Resurrection  of  our  Lord." 

BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 
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University  of  Aberdeen. 

BY  VERY  REV.  DEAN  VAUGHAN. 
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Doncaster  Sermons  : 

Lessons  of  Life  and  Godliness  and  Words  from  the  Gospels.  Two  Selections  of  Sermons 
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Llandaff,  and  Master  of  the  Temple  ;  Vicar  of  Doncaster,  1860-69. 

Globe  8vo,  cloth,  3^.  6d. 


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A  Closing  Series  of  Lent  Lectures  delivered  in  the  Temple  Church.    By  C.  J.  VAUGHAN^ 
D.D.,  Master  of  the  Temple. 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE,— ADVERTISEMENTS. 27 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co;s  New  Novels. 

BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 
3  vols.,  crown  8vo,  3IJ.  6d. 

THE  THREE  FATES. 

BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD,  Author  of  "  Khaled,"  "  The  Witch  of 
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BY  MRS.  OLIPHANT. 
3  vols.,  crown  8vo,  31  j.  6d. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

BY  MRS  OLIPHANT. 

BY   ROLF   BOLDREWOOD. 
3  vols.,  crown  8vo,  31^.  6d. 

NEVERMORE. 

BY  ROLF  BOLDREWOOD. 

SCOTSMAN: — *'The  author  has  a  thorough  grasp  of  the  conditions  of  life  prevailing  in  Australia  during  the 
fifties,  and  the  types  of  character  to  which  these  gave  rise.  .  .  .  The  story  is  healthy  in  tone,  picturesque  in 
detail,  and  full  of  vigour  and  interest." 

BY    MISS    YONGE. 
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THAT  STICK. 

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BY  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 
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A  STRANGE  ELOPEMENT. 

BY  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 

BY  HORACE  VICTOR. 
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MARIAM  ;  OR,  TWENTY-ONE  DAYS. 

BY  HORACE  VICTOR. 

SCOTTISH  LEADER.— *'  Worthy  to  be  added  to  the  small  bookshelf  that  already  holds  Tancred  and 
Eothen.    Thw  praise  may  seem  high,  but  it  is  well  deserved." 

MANCHESTER  GUARDIAN.— ''Ux.  Victor  has  the  power  of  giving  brilliant  pictures  of  Oriental  life 
which  seem  to  have  the  accuracy  which  can  only  be  attained  by  an  eye-witness." 

SCOTSMAN. — '*Will  be  read  with  enjovment  by  every  one  interested  in  in  the  men  and  manners  of  the 
East." 

GLASGOW  MAIL. — **  An  exceedingly  readable  and  intereslins  Eastern  story,  full  of  imagination  and 
abounding  in  vivid  local  colouring." 

DUBLIN  MAIL. — "Mr.  Victor  writes  freely  and  well,  and  'Mariam'  is  the  evidence  of  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  Arabian  race,  and  of  the  author's  ability  to  interest  and  entertain  the  reader." 

BY  MRS.  OLIPHANT. 
3  vols.,   crown  8vo,   cloth,  31  j.  dd. 

THE       RAILWAY       MAN       AND      HIS 
CHILDREN. 

BY  MRS.  OLIPHANT,  Author  of  "Kirsteen,"  "Hester,"  &c. 

MORNING  POST. — **  Mrs.  Oliph.ini  has  never  written  a  simpl«'  and  at  the  same  time  a  better  conceived 
story  ....  An  excellent  example  of  pure  and  simple  fiction,  which  is  also  of  the  deepest  interest." 

BY  BRET  HARTE. 
2  vols.,   crown  8vo,   cloth,  I2j. 

A    FIRST    FAMILY    OF    TASAJARA. 

BY  BRET  HARTE,  Author  of  "C:ressy,"  "  Heritage  of  Dedlow  Marsh,"  &c. 

DAILY  CHRONICLE.—  '  As  a  study  of  human  nature  in  the  rough  it  is  admirable." 
NA  T/ONAL  0BS/:R  l^ER  —"  Amusing,  excitins?.  and  well  written." 

GUARDIAN. — '•  There  are  pages  in  Mr.  Dret  Harte's  novel  which  would  be  gems  in  a  novel  of  the  first 
rank." 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO..  LONDON. 


28  MACMILTAN'S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 


■ ' 


.r 


Macmillan  &  Co.'s  New  Books. 

TWELVE  ENGLISH  STATESMEN.    New  Vol. 

Crown   8vo,    zs.    6d. 

PITT. 

BY      LORD      ROSEBERY. 

TIMES  : — '*  There  su-e  abundant  proofs  Id  this  brilliant  and  fascinating  little  book  that  Lord  Rosebery  possesses 
literary  gifts  of  a  very  high  order.  .  .  .  The  style  is  terse,  masculine,  nervous,  articulate,  and  clear  ;  the  grasp  of 
•circumstance  and  character  is  firm,  penetrating,  luminous,  and  unprejudiced ;  the  judgment  is  broad,  generous, 
humane,  and  scrupulously  candid,  even  when  it  provokes  dissent ;  and  the  whole  book  is  irradiated  with  incessant 
flashes  of  genial  and  kindly  humour,  with  frequent  felicities  of  epigrammatic  expression.  .  ...  It  is  not  only  a 
luminous  estimate  of  Pitt's  character  and  policy,  at  once  candid,  sympathetic,  and  kindly ;  it  is  also  a  brilliant 
gallery  of  portraits,  set  in  a  background  of  broadly-sketched  political  landscape.  The  portrait  of  Fox,  for 
example,  is  a  masterpiece." 

A  THENiEUM : — "Lord  Rosebery  has  produced  a  volume  that  is  a  model  of  arrangement,  a  mine  of  infor- 
mation, and  a  conspicuous  example  of  the  judicious  in  political  biography." 

MORNING  POST: — "None  of  the  many  biographical  sketches  published  during  recent  years  will  better 
repay  perusal  than  this,  and  certainly  none  has  been  marked  on  the  whole  by  a  more  impartial  judgment  of  history, 
whether  national  or  individual.]* 

DAILY  NEWS: — "Requires  no  further  recommendation  than  its  own  intrinsic  merits.  .  .  .  It  is  in  many 
respects,  and  those  not  the  least  essential,  a  model  of  what  such  a  work  should  be.  .  .  .  By  far  the  most  powerful, 
because  the  most  moderate  and  judicious,  defence  of  Pitt's  whole  career  ever  yet  laid  before  the  world." 

DAILY  TELEGRAPH  : — "Both  judicious  and  well  written.  .  .  .  Not  only  is  it  inspired  with  an  obviously 
sincere  desire  to  ascertain  the  truth,  but  it  contains  valuable  evidence  of  Lord  Rosebery's  statesmanlike  grasp  of 
imperial  questions." 

PALL  MALL  GAZETTE : — "An  admirable  piece  of  work.  It  is,  so  far  as  we  are  aware,  the  first  book 
from  his  lordship's  pen  ;  every  reader  will  hope  that  it  may  not  be  the  last." 

MANCHESTER  EXAMINER  :—''  Every  political  student  should  get  this  brilliant  biography." 

GLASGOW  HERALD : — "  The  comprehensiveness  of  the  sketch  and  the  literary  style  and  finish  of  the  book 
are  likely  to  render  it  a  standard  work." 

UNIFORM   WITH    MR.    HUGH    THOMSON'S   EDITION   OF   THE    "VICAR   OF 

WAKEFIELD." 

Crown    8vo,    cloth,  gilt   edges,    6s. 

CRANFORD. 

BY    MRS.    GASKELL. 

With  a  Preface  by  ANNE    THACKERAY    RITCHIE,  and   Illustrations  by 

HUGH    THOMSON. 

SA  TURD  A  V  REVIEW : — "  1  he  dear  ladies  of  Cranford  have  found  their  true  portrait  painter  at  last.** 
THE  QUEEN : — "  It  would  almost  seem  that  the  artist  must  have  had  a  personal  knowledge  of  sedan-chairs, 

-pattens,  poke-bonnets,  and  gaiters,  which  were  the  custom  of  the  period.     It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  seen 

more  individuality  and  character  than  appears  in  these  slight  sketches." 
PALL  MALL  GAZETTE  : — *'  One  is  almost  tempted  to  think,  as  one  turns  over  the  pages  of  this  delightful 

edition,  that  Mrs.  Gaskell  must  have  written  '  Cranford  *  with  a  prophetic  eye  for  Mr.    Hugh  Thomson  as  an 

illustrator.     All  the  characters  in  the  little  village  society  gain  by  Mr.  1  homson's  sympathetic  delineation.  .  .  . 

This  little  volume  will  be  a  welcome  present  in  many  households  this  Christmas.     It  is  most  daintily  got  up,  and  b 

made  ye:  more  attractive  by  an  interesting  preface  from  Mrs.  Ritchie." 

NEW  VOLUME  OF  LOWELL'S  WORKS. 
Just  published,  Crown  8vo,  cloth,  6s. 

JAMES      RUSSELL      LOWELL'S      LATEST 
LITERARY  ESSAYS  AND  ADDRESSES. 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


MACMILLAN*S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 29 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co/s  New  Books 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
Crown  8vo,  ys.  6d. 

The     Complete     Poetical      Works     of     James. 
Russell    Lowell. 

With  Portrait  and  Introduction  by  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

%*  Uniform  with  the  One-Volume  Edition  of  the  Poems  of  Tennyson^  Wordsworth^  Shelley.,  and  Mattkevy 
Arnold. 

GUARDIAN : — **In  a  word,  Mr.  Hughes  has  contributed  a  delightful  Preface  to  a  delightful  book,  whicb 
we  are  glad  to  recommend  to  our  readers.' 

NEW  PART. 
Crown    8vo,    6j. 

The  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante  Alighieri. 

Translated  by  Charles  Eliot  Norton.     Part  IL     Purgatory. 

EDITED  BY  MR.  FREDERIC  HARRISON. 
Crown  8vo,  cloth,  7j.  dd.  net. 

The  New  Calendar  of  Great  Men. 

Biographies  of  the    558  Worthies  of  all  Ages  and  Countries  in  the  Positivist  Calendar  of 
Auguste  Comte.     Edited  by  FREDERIC  HARRISON. 
PALL  MALL  GAZETTE : — "A  useful  and  in  its  way  unique  addition  to  the  history  of  recent  human, 
evolution." 

NEW  BOOK  BY  ARCHIBALD  FORBES,  LL.D. 
Crown  8vo,  cloth,  yj.  6d, 

Battles,  Bivouacs,  and  Barracks. 

By  ARCHIBALD  FORBES,  LL.D. 
TR  UTH : — "Tales  of  war,  as  brilliantly  told  as  any  published  in  our  time." 

NEW  AND  CHEAPER  EDITION  OF  ARCHDEACON  FARRAR'S  WORKS. 

Crown  8vo,  Ss.  6d.  each. 

Seekers  after  God. 

By  the  Rev.  F.  W.  FARRAR,  D.D.,  F.R.S.,  Archdeacon  and  Canon  of  Westminster. 


Eternal  Hope. 


Sermons  Preached  in  Westminster  Abbey.     By  the  Same  Author.     With  a  new  Preface^ 
and  two  hitherto  unpublished  Letters  of  DR.  PUSEY. 

The   Fall  of  Man,  and  other  Sermons  preached 

before  the  University  of  Cambridge  and  on  various  public  occasions.     By  the  Same  Author. 
*»*  The  first  three  volumes  of  a  New  and  Cheaper  Edition  of  Archdeacon  Farrar't  IVorks  to  be  continued 

monthly. 

NEW   BOOK  BY   REV.    STOPFORD  BROOKE. 

Crown  8vo,  cloth,  dr. 

Short  Sermons. 

By  Rev.  STOPFORD  BROOKE. 

GLASGOW  HERALD  :—'*  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  has  really  something  to  say  and  he  says  it  in  the  best  posrible 
way.  His  manner  is  as  good  as  his  matter.  There  is  not  a  single  commonplace  or  conventional  sermon  in  the 
volume." 

SCOTSMAN: — *'  They  are  in  the  best  sense  moral  discourses,  provoking  to  love,  self-sacrifice,  devotion,  and 
good  works." 

Fcap.  8vo,  2s,.  net. 

Hymns  Edited    and    Collected,  with    Thirty-Six 

Original  Hymns.     By  the  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke. 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


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30 MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co;s  New  Books. 


MRS.    OLIPHANT. 
Medium  8vo,  21s. 

Jerusalem  :  The  Holy  City,  Its  History  and  Hope. 

By  Mrs.  OLIPHANT.     With  50  Illustrations  (uniform  with  "The  Makers  of  Florence," 
&c). 

*»*  Also  a  limited  Edition  on  large pa^er^  50J.  net. 

SCOTSMAN.— "On^  of  the  most  attractive  Christmas  books  of  the  year." 

RECORD. — "  It  is  entitled  to  yet  higher  praise  than  that  which  ia  due  to  it  for  its  charm  as  an  expression  of 
the  highest  literary  skill." 

OBSERVER. — "Mrs.  Oliphant  has  written  no  better  literature  than  this.  It  is  a  history;  but  it  is  one  of 
more  than  human  interest." 

BY  J.  L.  KIPLING,  CLE. 
8vo,  cloth,  21s, 

Beast  and  Man  in  India. 

I  A  popular  Sketch  of  Indian  Animals  in  their  Relation*?   with  the  People.    By  JOHN  LOCKWOOD 

^  KIPLING,  CLE.    With  many  Illustrations  by  the  Author. 

TIMES. — "Mr.  Kipling's  book  is  that  of  a  skilled  artist  as  well  as  a  keen  observer.  He  ^oes  through  the 
whole  of  the  fauna  of  India  and  its  relation  to  man,  illustrating  it  copiqpsly  and  effectively  with  his  own  and  other 
pencils,  including  those  of  more  than  one  native  artist." 

ANTI-JACOBIN. — "Mr.  Kipling  not  only  knows  every  corner  of  his  chosen  field,  but  possesses  the  literary 
skill  which  enables  him  to  turn  his  knowledge  to  the  best  account.  .  .  .  No  such  book  has  heretofore  been 
written,  and  it  will  be  long  before  we  have  another  as  good." 

ST.  JAMES'S  GAZETTE.— *'  Ahook  which  will  give  English  readers  a  truer  conception  of  the  character 
of  the  natives  than  a  whole  library  of  standard  works.  Of  the  book  itself,  we  can  only  repeat  that  it  is  one  of  the 
best  about  India  we  have  seen  for  a  long  time." 

AN  IMPORTANT  NEW  WORK  ON  THE  SOUDAN. 

8vo,  cloth,  30J.  net. 

Mahdiism  and  the  Egyptian  Soudan. 

Being  an  Account  of  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  Mahdiism,  and  of  subsequent  events  in  the 
Soudaii  to  the  present  time.      By  Major  F.   R.   WINGATE,   R.A.,  D.S.O.,  Assistant 
Adjutant-General  for  Intelligence,    Egyptian   Army.        With   17   Maps  and   Numerous 
:  ::  Plans. 

1  '.  DAILY  TELEGRAPH. — **  As  a  contribution  to  military  literature  it  will  probably  occupy  a  distinguished 

.  ^  place  as  one  of  the  most  masterly  works  of  its  kind.     The  style  is  direct  almost  to  plainness  ;   but  the  tragic 

i  "^  pathos  of  the  subject  needs  no  adventitious  aids  of  art  to  enforce  its  moral.     Major  Wingate's  account  of  the 

siege  and  fall  of  Khartum  is  as  complete  as  it  is  ever  likely  to  be  made.   The  real  character  of  Mahdiism  too  stands 

out  clearly." 
GLASGOW  HERALD. — "  It  tells  all  that  is  known,  or  will  probably  ever  be  known,  of  the  origin  of  the 

Mahdi's  revolt,  of  the  sad  fate  of  Hicks  Pasha,  and  of  the  last  days  of  Gordon  in  Khartum  :   and  gives  full 

accounts  of  the  reorganization  of  the  Egyptian  army,  the  operations  on  the  Dead  Sea  littoral,  of  Osman  Digna 

and  of  the  present  state  of  the  Sudan,   down  to  the  withdrawal  of  £min  Pasha,  the  last  of  the  Khedive's 

governors." 
SCOTSMAN. — "  May  be  accepted  as  being,  as  far  as  is  at  present  possible,  an  authentic  and  in  large  measure 

original  account  of  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  religious  and  political  movements  of  our  time." 
SCOTTISH  LEADER. — "A  work  which  undoubtedly  gives  the  best  extant  account  of  the  strange  and,  to 

most  of  us,  very  obscure  revolt  of  the  Sudanese^  and  also  of  the  war  which  had  its  centre  within  the  ramparts 

of  Khartum.     The  book  bears  on  every  page  of  it  evidence  of  the  most  careful  and  conscientious  research  .  .  . 

conveyed  in  a  style  which  is  always  clear  and  vigorous,  and  often  picturesque.  .  .  .  One  may  see  that  Major 

Wingate  has  quite  grasped  the  Sudanese  question,  and  this  book  therefore  has  all  the  merit  which  a  right  and 

sympathetic  understanding  of  his  subject  implies." 
Sir  Samuel  Baker  in  die  ANTI-JACOBIN. — "  Most  excellent  and  comprehensive ;  it  supplies  an  admirable 

history  of  the  Sudan  insurrection." 


A  NEW  BOOK  ON  EGYPT. 
Fcap.  8vo,  3^.  6d, 

In  Cairo. 

By  W.  MORTON  FULLERTON. 

STAR. — "Full  of  subdued  warm  colour,  subtle  bits  of  observation  and  quiet  humorous  reflection.* 
SPEAKER. — "There  is  a  touch  of  imagination  about  some  of  these  slight  sketches." 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 31 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co/s  Books. 

WORKS  BY  THE  LATE  MR.  J.  K.  STEPHEN. 
Foolscap  8vo,  ^s.  6d,  net. 

QUO   MUSA   TENDIS.? 

Also  150  Copies  on  large  paper,  Dutch  hand-made,  12s.  6d,  net. 

TIMES. — "  His  verse  is  musical  and  various^  and  his  themes  are  touched  with  a  happy  knack  of  orij^inaUty." 

SCOTSMAN. — *•  Poetry  or  not,  his  verse  is  of  the  kind  that  invariably  inspires  a  friendly  feeling  to  the 
writer :  and  every  one  who  reads  either  this  book  or  '  Lapsus  Calami '  will  keep  a  kindly  eye  open  for 
Mr.  Stephen's  next  appearance,  and  share  the  pleasures  of  its  success." 

CAMBRIDGE  REVIEW.— ''hit.  J.  K.  Stephen's  new  book,  'Quo  Musa  Tendis?'  fully  maintains  the 
reputation  which  its  predecessor  earned,  and  will  be  warmly  welcomed  by  Mr.  Stephen's  numerous  admirers." 

ECHO.-'*^'Has  second  collection  of  verses,  'Quo  Mu^a  Tendis?'  has  been  published.  ...  It  is,  at  least, 
as  bright  and  pleasant  as  the  first.  .  .  .  Mr.  Stephen  occupies  a  permanent  place  among  the  small,  select,  loyal 
band  of  poets  who  have  given  expression  to  the  associations  of  school  and  University  life.  A  versifier,  but  not  a 
poet,  Mr.  Stephen  has  called  himself,  and  superficial  readers  may perha]>s  take  him  at  his  word.  Versified  wit, 
rhymed  common  sense — often  cynical  common  sense — his  work  is.  One  might  say  that  of  all  rhymesters  he  is  the 
most  tmemotional.  But  as  some*  one  has  truly  remarieed,  there  are  *  deeps '  behind  the  light,  airy  veil.  Any 
reader  with  a  pennyworth  of  mind  will  see  them  in  the  lines  on  the  Old  School  list,  and  in  '  In  a  Garden'— >to 
take  an  example  or  two  at  random  from  the  present  little  volume." 

IVEEKLy  DISPA  TCH.—'*  There  are  tones  of  true  feeling  in  the  verses  to  *  My  Old  School '  (Eton);  and 
in  '  The  Old  School  List '  pathos  and  humour  are  deftly  commingled." 

GUARDIAN. — **  •  To  a  Rejected  Lover '  is  a  spirited  and  wiihal  philosophical  modem  version  of  Suckling's 
famous  Unes,  and  the  *  Paradox  *  on  the  'golden  rule   : — 

'To  find  out  what  you  cannot  do, 
Ahd  then  to  go  and  do  it '  ^     ^ 

is  another  example  of  clever  reasoning  in  verse.  These  two  poems,  to  our  thinking,  are  much  the  best  in  the  book." 

FREEMAN'S  JOURNAL.—"*  On  the  whole  the  neat  little  volume  is  full  of  genuine  and  ori^nal  merit, 
thoughts  and  fancies  brightly  expressed,  and  bearing  evidences  of  the  refined  culture  one  associates  with  the  best 
traditions  of  University  life.  We  can  only  trust  that  *  J.  K.  S.'s '  prose  will  not  be  unworthy  of  the  promise  of  the 
muse  of  his  student  days." 

Foolscap  8vo,  2s.  6d.  net. 

LAPSUS    CALAMI. 

Fourth  Edition  (Third  Thousand).     With  considerable  omissions  and  additions.      Also  150 
on  large  paper,  Dutch  hand -made. 

SPECTA  TOR. — "Parodies  of  moderate  merit  are  so  easy,  that  we  seldom  enjoy  parodies,  but  'J.  K.  S.*s 
parodies  are  of  more  than  moderate  merit.     They  do  not  merely  make  one  smile,  and  then  regret  that  one  has 
smiled  from  the  sense  of  emptiness  which  follows  ;  they  make  one  almost  think  that  the  parody  must  have  been 
written  by  the  poet  parodied  in  a  moment  of  amused  self-ridicule.  .  .  .  Take  it  all  in  all,  the  '  Lapsus  Calami ' 
will  be  a  favourite  wherever  it  is  read. " 

HERALD^  Boston,  U.S. — "*  Lapsus  Calami '  was  first  published  in  the  April  of  1891.  In  May  a  second 
was  called  for,  and  in  June  a  third  edition  was  issued,  an  edition  with  various  omissions  and  additions.  I  am  glad 
that  the  stanzas  I  am  about  to  copy  were  not  omitted,  for  I  think  them  delightfully  wicked.  ...  If  the  Boston 
Browning  Club  were  not  so  grave  and  serious  a  body,  I  should  like  to  read  (*  The  Last  Ride  Together ')  to  them 
when  I  come  home." — Louise  Chandler  Moulton.  « 

Crown  8vo,  11. 

The  Living  Languages. 

A  Defence  of  the  Compulsory  Study  of  Greek  at  Cambridge. 

CAMBRIDGE  REVIEW. — "  The  pamphlet  before  us  can  be  enjoved,  whatever  our  opinions  may  be,  and 
deserves  to  be  read  and  considered  whether  we  are  convinced  by  it  or  no.' 

MANCHESTER  GUARDIAN.— '*Ut.  J.  K.  Stephen's  'The  Living  Languages'  is  *a  defence  of  the 
compulsory  study  of  Greek  at  Cambridge,'  and  is  marked  bv  the  ability  and  brilliance  of  the  writer,  as  well  as 
by  his  love  of  paradox,  which  breaks  out  even  in  the  title,  for  by  '  living  languages '  he  means  Greek  knd  Latin." 

Annals  of  Scottish  Printing. 

From  the  Introduction  of  the  Art  in  1507  to  the  beginning  of  the  Seventeenth  Century.  By 
ROBERT  DICKSON,  L.R.C.S.E.,  and  JOHN  PHILIP  EDMOND.  On  Dutch  hand- 
made paper,  limited  in  number  as  follows :  500  demy  4to,  bound  in  buckram,  each  copy 
numbered,  £2  2s.  net ;  icx)  royal  4to,  each  copy  numbered,  bound  in  two  vols,  in  half 
Japanese  vellum,  £4  4s,  net. 
ACADEMY.— **  To  say  that  it  is  the  best  book  on  the  subject  is  but  faint  praise ;  to  say  it  could  hardly  be 
better  k  only  just." 

CAMBRIDGE  :    MACMILLAN  AND  BOWES. 
LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


32  MACMILLAN'S  MAGAZINE.— ADVERTISEMENTS. 


Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co/s  New  Books. 

NEW  BOOK  BY  PROFESSOR  MAHAFFY. 
Now  ready.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  Js,  6d. 

Problems   in  Greek  History. 

By  J.  P.  MAIIAFKV,  Author  of  "Social  Life  in  Greece,"  &c. 

NEW  AND  REVISED  EDITION. 
Crown  8vo.,  3x.  6d. 

Thirteen  Satires  of  Juvenal. 

Translated  into  English  by  ALEXANDER  LEEPER,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Warden  of  Trinity 

College  in  the  University  of  Melbourne.     New  and  Revised  Edition. 


**  This  translatt0H  was  originally  brought  out  as  th*  joint  work  of  Dr,  H.  A.  Strongs  at  ikmt  Htm*  Prw^na&r 
of  Classics  in  Afelbourtte  Univirtity^  and  the  present  writer.  Three  issued  of  th§  first  otUtiam  kmvmg  kmm 
sold  out ^  the  bock  has  new  been  thorou^ly  revised^  and,  to  a  large  extent^  re-ton tten, 

ACADEMY. — "  A  version  which  is  well  worthy  to  stand  by  tne  side  of  such  masterpieces  of  fidthfnl  r!!niliii^ 
as  Munro's  Lucretius,  Lang's  Thfocritus,  and  Butcher  and  Lang's  Odyssey.  The  rendering  is  both  clon  «l3 
vigorous,  and  it  would  be  easy  to  quote  many  happy  turns  from  this  excellent  piece  of  work." 

.S'/'.ffCTVir^^.—'*  This  version  strikes  tu  as  vigoroos,  while  it  is  certainly  fiuthful We  nay  give  as 

a  specimen  of  the  translators'  style  their  excellent  rendering  of  the  fine  passage  viii.  345 — 258." 

NEW  BOOK  BY  PROFESSOR  S.  H.  BUTCHER. 

Crown  8vo,  ^s.  6d,  net. 

Some  Aspects  of  the  Greek  Genius. 

By  S.  H.  BUTCHER,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Greek,  Edinburgh  University,  formerly  Fellow 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  of  University  College,  Oxford. 

T/AfES.—**  An  admirable  and  scholarly  volume.  Well  adapted  to  display  the  rare  combiiution  of  finished 
scholarship  with  acute  critical  insight  which  is  Prtfessor  Butcher's  characteristic  sift." 

ST.  JAMES'S  GAZETTE.—'*  Professor  Butcher  writes  so  fluently  and  brightly,  that  in  reading  these  essays 
we  are  in  danger  of  overlooking  his  solid  attainments  and  accurate  scholarship.' 

OXFORD  MAGAZlNE.-^**T\it  whole  volume  is  delightfully  fresh  and  readable ;  nor  can  any  reader  lay  it 
down  with>>ut  a  cordial  ^preciation  of  the  style  as  well  as  the  matter  of  the  writer — the  real  value  of  his  iudg- 
ments,  and  the  graceful  touch  which  gives  life  and  movement  and  charm  to  all  he  has  to  say." 

DR.  CARL  SCHUCUHARDT. 
8vo,  18 f.  net. 

Dr.  Schliemann's  Excavations:  an  Archaeological 

and  Historical  Study.  By  Dr.  CARL  SCHUCHHARDT,  Director  of  the  Kestner 
Museum,  in  Hanover.  Translated  from  the  German  by  EUCjEME  SELLERS.  With 
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MACMILLAN^S  MAGAZINE.— AD VERTISEMENTS.  37 

CONSUMPTION 


There  is  ease  for  those  far  gone  in 
consumption — not  recovery — ease. 


"When   past  cure,   there  is  strength 
and  comfort,  ease  and  prolonging  of  life, 


in  Scott's  Emulsion." — Fro7n  Careful 
Living.* 


There  is  cure  for  those  not  far  gone. 


"  Consider  again,  what  consumption  is. 
It  is  the  growth  and  reproduction  of  this 
germ  in  the  lung,  when  the  lung  is  too 
weak  to  conquer  it.  The  remedy  is 
strength. 

The  adjustment  of  lung  strength  to 
overcome  germ-strength  is  going  on  all 
the  time  in  us.  Health  for  the  lungs  is 
fighting  this  germ  with  the  odds  in  our 
favour.  Consumption  is  fighting  this 
germ  with  the  odds  against  us. 

What  will  cure  consumption  after 
you  know  you  have  got  \\.l 

You  do  not  know  you  have  got  it  until 
the  fight  has  been  going  on  against  you 
for  some  time.     It  is  serious  now. 

Before  it  began  vou  were  in  poor 
health,  and  your  health  has  been  getting 
poorer  all  the  time  ever  since.  The 
germs  have  got  a  good  start,  and  your 


germ- fighting  strength  is  a  good  way  be- 
hind. The  question  is :  Can  you  now, 
with  the  added  burden  of  this  disease 
recover  strength  enough  to  conquer  it? 

You  may  or  may  not  The  only  way  to 
find  out  is  by  trying.  Whether  you  will 
succeed  or  not  depends  on  how  far  along 
you  are  in  consumption,  and  how  care- 
fully you  can  live. 

Careful  living  has  different  meanings 
for  different  persons.  Your  doctor  i 
the  one  to  find  out  its  meaning  for  you, 
and  to  point  out  the  way  to  health  for 
you.  He  will  tell  you  that  the  food  to 
fight  consumption  with  is  fat ;  and  that 
the  easiest  food-fat  is  cod-liver  oil  when 
partly  digested,  broken  up  into  tiny 
drops,  as  in  Scott's  Emulsion." — From 
Careful  Living. 


There  is  prevention — better  than 
cure — for  those  who  are  threatened. 
Who  are  threatened  ? 


Every  one  recognizes  the  change  from 
being  plump  to  being  less  plump  as  a 
sign  of  a  letting  down  of  health. 

Whoever  is  in  a  low  state  of  health, 
inherited  or  acquired,  whether  he  has 


ever  suspected  a  tendency  toward  con- 
sumption or  not,  inherited  or  acquired, 
may  well  take  thought  to  fortify  himself 
against  \t,—From  Careful  Living. 


rhe  remedy — careful  Hving. 


This  careful  living  is  nothing  more 
than  the  practice  of  being  comfortable. 


It  belongs  more  and  more  to  modem  life. 
It  is  civilized  life.-/w/«CAREFUL  LIVING 


•  CAREFUL  LIVING,  a  small  book  on  the  relation  of  fat  to  health  in  the  light  of  medical 
science  of  to-day  will  be  sent  free  to  those  who  write  for  it  to  ScOTT  &  BOWNE^  Limited, 
Chemists,  47,  Farringdon  Street,  E.C,  London. 


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nBC«  •!  CellaUr  Uh^h,  wlih  — w  aT  la*  Ca 
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M ACMILLAN*S  MAGAZINE.— AD  VIBRTISEMENTS. 39 

Macmillan's  Magazine 

No.  389  March  1892 

Contents. 

PAGE 

I. — Finland;  by  E.  A.  Freeman 321 

2. — Don  Orsino  ;   by    F.   Marion    Crawford.      Chapters 

VII.— VIII 329 

3. — Patrick  Henry;  by  A.  G.  Bradley 346 

4. — Hamlet  and  the  Modern  Stage ;  by  Mowbray  Morris  357 

5. — Up  the  Gerschni  Alp 365 

6. — Hours  of  Labour  ;  by  the  Rev.  Harry  Jones     .     .     .  367 
7. — The  Universal  Language  ;  by  C.  R.  Haines.     .     .     .  372 

8. — The  Scarlet  Hunter;  by  Gilbert  Parker 376 

9. — Leaves  from  a  Note-Book 386 

10. — The  Stranger  in  the  House 394 

MACMILLAN'S    MAGAZINE 

For  February,  1 892,  contains — 

I. — Don  Orsino  ;  by  F.  Marion  Crawford.     Chapters  IV.— VI. 

2. — The  Beautiful  and  the  True  ;  by  Mark  Reid. 

3. — Our  Military  Unreadiness. 

4. — The  Village  Legacy. 

5. —  Romance  and  Youth, 

6.— The  Flight  from  the  Fields  ;  by  Arthur  Gayc. 

7, — Sir  Michael ;  by  Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  Bart. 

8. — National  Pensions;  by  H.  Clarence  Bourne. 

All  Communications  should  be  addressed  to  the  Editor  of  MaaniUatis  Magazine, 

"  To  the  care  of  Messrs.   Macmillan  &  Co.,  29  and  30  Bedford  Street, 

Covent  Garden,  W,CP 
Every  MS,  should  bear  the  name  and  address  of  the  writer,  and  be  accompanied  by 

the  necessary  Postage  Stamps  for  its  return  in  case  of  non-acceptance.     Every 

endeavour  will  be  made  to  send  back  non-accepted  Articles,  but  the  Editor 

cannot  guarantee  their  safe  return. 
There  is  no  rule  in  this  Magazine  entitling  a  Contributor  to  tlie  publication  of  his 

Signature,      This  and  all    kindred    matters  rest    solely  in    the   Editar^s 

discretion. 

MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LONDON. 


C( 


PEPSALIA" 


aid 


Wo 


have  proved  its  eflicacy. 

Use  one  laltspoonful  ofPepsalii 
mth  oaeh  meal. 
CAUTION.— Beware  of  imitations. 

Pepsalia  alooe  is  genuii 
IiiboUlai,  la.,  2s.,  and  5ji. 
each,/r(na  Chemula,  or  from 


FOR 


'Wtieii  digfation  is  weak. 
When  there  is  weight  aa  of  a  stone. 
When  there  is  a  general  feeling  of 
discomfort, 

Oemember  that 

PEPSALIA 

naed  rcyutarly  in  place  of  onliuaij 
Table  Salt  while  ealiug  will  always  en- 
sure prompt  and  perfect  digestbn,  aud 
give  health  and  comfort. 


INDIGESTION 

Possessing  all  the  Properties  of  tiie  Finest  Arrowroot, 

BROWN^POLSON'S  CORN  FLOUR 

Is  a  Hotisehold  Requisite  of  Constant  Utility 
FOR  THE  NURSERY,  THE  FAMILY  TABLE  AND  THE  SWK  ROOM. 

NOTE. — TJnlike  many  other  Com  Flours,  this  bears  the  name  of  Its 
Uannfacturers,  who  offer  the  guarantee  of  their  long-established 
repntation  for  its  nniformly  superior  quality. 

SALiYINEi      GREiAM  indcompiexiok. 


nhjcti 


"BALVIKE"  CSBAMiait 


Lil.plE  a 


le  Con.plo,toi.. 


ChilblBine.lQflBinmation,  Com  winds,' tc.    : 
"SAL VINE  ''  SOIENTIFIO  DENTIFRIOE  ni 

theTeetb.    Is.  61.,  Is.  60.  and  ll. 
"BALVIHE"  SOIBUTIFIC  SOAP.    2g.  perBoiot  Three  Tiblcts. 
■■  SALVIKB  "  TOILET  POWDSK.    Is.  Bd.,  Si.  and  Ea. 
"  SALVtNE  "  SSAVIHa  SOAP.    Is.  and  Is.  BO.  per  SUck. 
"  SALVIHB  "  TOOTH-BRDSH.    Adults',  Is. :  Cbildrea's,  Tjd. 
po.l  fric  from  SALTING  COHPANY,  3  Oi/ord  Btrttt.  W.  Limion, 


MELLIN'S  FOOD 

FOR    IKFAHTS    AND   INVAUDS. 


For   Children    after   Wsanini;,    the   Aged,    and    l>Yspeptic. 
DIGESTIVE,  NDURISNING,  SUSTAINIHG. 


Q.  MBZJJN,    Marlboro'   Works.   FECEHAU,    b:E: 


Bit  Wiulkx  Btott 

The  Edinburgh 
m    Life  Office 


■^HE  Author  of  Waverley, 
writing  in  his  Diary 
under  the  date  13th  December  1825,  says  - 


"  Went  to  the  Yearly  f'ourt  of  tho  Elinburgh  Assurance 

"  f  aiiiponj,  to  whirh   I  nm  one  of  those  graLeful  and  uaelesi 

ippendlges,    cilled   Directcra   l.\.trHorJiDatj— an   extruordi 

nary  Director  I  should  pro^e  hud  thej   elected  me  an  ordi 

There  were  thire  inonejers  and  great  oneyers,'  men  of  raetftl — 

"counters    and    discounters — sharp,    grim,   prudential    fuces^ — eyes    weak    with 

ciphering  hy  huip  light^men  who  iny  to  gold,  Be  thou  paper      and  lo  paper 

Be  thou  turned  into   fine  gold  My  reverend  seigniors  had  expected 

a  motion  for  printing  their  Contrftct,   which  I,  aa   u  piece   of  light   artillery, 

was  brought  don  n  and  got  into  haitery  to  oppose       I   dhonld  certainly  have 

done  this  on  the  general  ground,   thaC  while  each   person   could  at  any  time 

"  obtain  sight  of  the  Contract  at  a  call  on  the  Directors  or  Managers,  it  would  be 

'  absurd  to  print  it  for  tho  use  of  the  Company,  and  that  exposing  it  to  the  eyes 

"  of  the  world  at  large  was  in  all  respects  unnecessary,  and  might  teach  novel 

"  Companies  to  avail  thfroselves  of  our  rules  and  calculations — if  false,  for  the 

"  purpose  of  exposing  our  errors— if  correct,  for  the  purpose  of  improving  their  own 

"schemes  on  our  model.     But  my  eloquence  was  not  required,  no  one  renewing 

niler  question  ;  so  off  I  came,  my  ears  still  ringing  with  the  sound 

"  of  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  and  my  eyes  dazzled  with  the  golden  gleam 

"  offered  hy  so  iminy  capitalists. 

"Walked  home  with  the  Solicitor* — decidedly  the  most  hopeful  young  man 
"of  his  time." — Vide  LoekharVs  "  Memo  its,"  also  "Sir  Walter  Scatei  Joamal" 
(1890),  vol.  i.  p.  48. 


1  VUte  Ut  Kine  Henry  IV.,  Ac:t  11.  Scen< 
iiaimty  :  liurEoniiuitcni  nr.l  gnat  onfifn 
'  Julin  IlQl',  Esq.  nil  ItnleMty'ii  Sollcll 
aorrlinlry  IMrietm  ol  the  Coniimny. 


-  aHlAm.—l  u 
'nrnirorBcollai: 


noblUty  ai 


&ix  QEalter  Scott  anli  ti^e  dBbMbixxf^  Hife  &fSitt. 


IHE  Company  referred  to  in  the  foregoing  extract  had  been  founded 
two  years  previously.  It  was  the  first  of  its  kind  established  north  of 
the  Tweed  for  the  prosecution  of  Life  Assurance  apart  from  any  other 
branch  of  business,  and  it  owed  its  formation  and  much  of  its  early  success 
to  members  of  the  legal  profession,  of  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  so 
distinguished  an  ornament.  Sir  Walter  himself  took  an  active  interest 
in  its  affairs.  His  name  appears  again  and  again  in  the  records  of  the 
meetings  as  making  formal  motions,  and  as  offering  wise  suggestion  or 
shrewd  counsel  when  difficulties  arose  in  the  management  of  a  business 
which,  in  those  early  days,  was  perhaps  but  little  understood.  Besides 
being  an  Extraordinary  Director,  he  was  a  Policyholder  in  the  Company 
to  a  substantial  amount,  thus  illustrating  by  his  example  the  appreciation 
of  the  benefits  of  Life  Assurance,  which  so  many  great  and  wise  men  have 
shown  in  a  similar  practical  way.  A  reduced  facsimile  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  Policy  is  given  on  another  page. 

The  Company  to  which  the  famous  Romancer  thus  lent  his  support 
has  made  great  progress  since  his  day.  Without  the  aid  of  extensive 
advertising,  but  by  the  steady  development  of  its  connections  with  the 
public,  The  Edinburgh  Life  Assurance  Company  has  grown  from 
small  beginnings  to  be  a  solid  and  important  institution. 

At  the  meeting  to  which  the  above  extract  relates,  it  was  reported  with 
no  little  gratification  that  the  realised  funds  amounted  to  £65,550,  and 
the  annual  income  to  £15,000. 

At  the  Sixty-seventh  Annual  Meeting  in  1891,  it  was  reported  that  the 
funds  amounted  to  £2,550,000,  and  the  annual  income  to  £330,000. 
There  were  then  in  force  upwards  of  15,000  Policies  insuring  (with  Bonus 
Additions)  over  Seven  Millions  Sterling.  At  the  latest  actuarial 
investigation  and  valuation  in  1885,  there  was  found  to  be  a  Surplus  in 
hand  of  £330,000  after  providing  for  all  liabilities.  This  was  the  means 
of  large  Additional  Bonuses  being  added  to  the  Policies. 

The  next  Distribution  of  Bonuses  will  be  made  as 
at  31st  March  1892.  Policies  issued  before  that  date  will 
participate. 

The  Company  has  also  made  great  progress  in  liberalising  the  con- 
ditions  on  which  Assurances  are  effected.  Restrictions  on  Foreign  Travel 
and  Residence  are  in  great  measure  removed.  Valuable  policies  are  no 
longer  subject  to  the  risk  of  forfeiture  through  omission  to  pay  a  premium. 
Claims  are  payable  immediately  on  the  requisite  proofs  being  furnished, 
and  not  after  an  interval  of  months  as  formerly ;  and,  in  general,  the  whole 


■TiV«WW»*PW 


Sir  QEalter  Scott  antr  tfie  dBbininx^  Htfe  0Witt. 

arrangements  of  the  Office  have  been  made  as  liberal  and  advantageous 
as  possible.  At  the  same  time  the  Eates  of  Premium  are  moderate,  and 
the  system  of  dividing  the  Profits  is  such  as  to  secure  very  substantial 
benefits  to  the  Assured.  Participation  commences  from  the  outset  of 
each  Policy,  and  the  rates  of  Bonus  increase  as  age  advances.  The 
Prospectus  contains  full  information  on  all  these  points. 

The   Company  has   established  itself  in   all    the   important  centres 

throughout  the  United  Kingdom.     Besides  the  Offices  mentioned  below, 

there  are  agents  in  nearly  every  town,  from  whom  Prospectuses  and  all 

particulars  may  be  had,  and  who  will  gladly  aid  in  carrying  through 

Proposals  for  Assurance. 

JiUi/ 1891. 


€l^t  ^inhuxQl^  life  ^%%uxwxtt  €omymi^. 

HEAD   OFFICE:    22  GEORGE  STREET,   EDINBURGH. 

^xtsxbtnt. 
SIR  GRAHAM  GRAHAM  MONTGOMERY  OF  STANHOPE,  BART. 

THE  MOST  HON.  THE  MARQUIS  OF  LOTHIAN,  K.T., 

Secretary  of  State  for  Scotland, 


(Extraorbinarg'  'gixtctoxs. 
The  Hon.  Lord  Adam. 
Sir  James  Joseph  Allport. 
The  Hon.  Lord  Stormonth  Darling. 
Chris.  Douglas  of  Chesterhouse,  Esq. 
The  Rev.  Paton  J.  Gloag,  D.D. 
The  Hon.  Lord  Kincairney. 
The  Hon.  Lord  Kinnkar. 
1  iie  Hon.  Lord  Kyllachy. 
John  Ord  Mackenzie  of  Dolphinton,  Esq. 
The  Right  Hon.  Lord  Melville. 
James  Tod  Mercer  of  Scotsbank,  Esq. 
John  B.  H.  Montgomery  of  Newton,  Esq. 


©rbittarg  'gixutoxii, 
Geo.  Miller  Cunningham,  Esq.,  C.E. 
James  Mylne,  Esq.,  W.S. 
Claud  Hamilton  Hamilton  of  Bams,  Esq. 
William  MacGillivray,  Esq.,  W.S. 
Archibald  Burn  Mukdoch,  Esq.,  W.S. 
John  Cheyne,  Esq. ,  Advocate. 
George  Barclay,  Esq.,  Merchant. 
John  Boyd,  Esq.,  Publisher. 
M.  Montgomerie  Bell,  Esq.,  W.S. 
James  Howden,  Esq.,  C.A. 
Charles  G.  H.  Kinnear, Esq.,  Architect. 
George  Bruce,  Esq.,  W.S. 


3fa7iaf7er— George  Macritchie  Low,  F.R.S.E.,  F.F.A. 
iS^ecre/ary— Archibald  Hew  at,  F.F.A.,  F.I.  A. 

LONDON  OFFICE:   11  KINO-  WILLLA.M  STREET,  B.C. 


DUBLIN  .    55  UPPER  SACKVILLE  STREET. 
GLASGOW  122  ST.  VINCENT  STREET. 

MANCHESTER      .        .      12  KING  STREET. 
BIRMINGHAM  16  BENNETT'S  BILL. 


LIVERPOOL 
NEWCASTLE 
DUNDEE 
BRISTOL       . 


.     40  CASTLE  STREET, 

6  QUEEN  STREET. 

56  COMMERCIAL  STREET. 

.  1  BROAD  QUAY. 


Reduced  Facsimile  of  Policy  effected  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart., 


IN  THE  YEAR  J  824,  WITH 


%\i  ^irinburgj)  lift  aaauratict  Compang. 


iC  >^n» —w^i^  .wtf'^Ai.- 


The  Sam  axmreii  h>j  this  Polky  was  paid  on  the  death  of  Sir  JFaltcr  Scott 
in  the  year  1832.  Great  improvements  have  Hnce  been  made  in  the  terms  and 
comiiti(ms  of  the  Company's  Policies. 


Scottish  Provident  Institution. 


TABLE  OF  PREMIUMS,  BY  DIFFERENT  MODES  OF  PAYMENT, 

For  ABSQxanoe  of  £100  at  Death- With  Profits. 


Age 

Annual 

ANNUAL 

PREMIUM   LIMITED  TO 

Ag« 

nfxt 

Premium  pay- 
able during 

Sincle 

next 

Birth- 

Twenty-one 

Fourteen 

Beven 

Pfcyment. 

Birth. 

day. 

Life. 
£1   16     3 

Payments. 
£2  10     6 

F^ymentii. 

Payments. 
£6  10     0 

; 

day. 

21           : 

£3     4  11 

£33     0     1 

21 

22 

1   16     9 

2  11 

0 

3     6     9 

6  11     0 

88     6  10      1 

22 

23 

1   17     2 

2  11 

6 

8     6     5 

6  12     1 

88  11   2    ; 

23 

24 

1  17     7 

2  12 

1 

8    6  11 

5  18     1 

88  16    6 

24 

25 

1  18     0 

2  12 

6 

8    7     3 

5  14    0 

84    2    0 

25 

26 

1  18    6 

2  13 

0 

8    7  10 

6  14  11 

84     8    2 

26 

27 

1  19    2 

2  13 

6 

3    8    7 

6  16  11 

84  16     1 

27 

28 

1  19  11 

2  14 

1 

3    9    6 

6  17     1 

86    4     9 

28 

29 

2    0    8 

2  14 

8 

8  10    8 

6  18    6 

86  14     1 

29 

•30 

2     1     6 

2  15 

4 

3  11     2 

• 

6    0    1 

86     4     0 

•30 

31 

2     2     6 

2  16 

2 

3  12     1 

6    1  10 

86  14     6 

31 

32 

2     3     6 

2  17 

1 

8  18    2 

6    8    8 

87    5    6 

82 

33 

2     4     6 

2  18 

0 

8  14     4 

6    5    8 

87  17    2 

33 

34 

2     5     7 

2  19 

0 

3  15    7 

6    7    9 

88    9    7 

34 

35 

2     6  10 

3    0 

2 

3  16  11 

6  10    0 

39     2    9 

35 

36 

2     8     2 

8     1 

6 

8  18    4 

6  12    6 

89  16  11 

36 

37 

2     9     8 

3     2 

9 

3  19  11 

6  16     0 

40  12    4 

37 

38 

2  11     3 

3     4 

3 

4     1     7 

6  17     9 

41     8     7 

38 

39 

2  12  11 

3    5 

9 

4    8    4 

7    0    7 

42     6     4 

39 

t40 

2  14     9 

3     7 

6 

4    6    2 

7    8    7 

43    2  10 

t40 

41 

2  16     8 

3    9 

2 

4    7    2 

7    6    8 

44     0  11 

41 

42 

2  18     8 

8  11 

1 

4    9    8 

7    9  11 

44  19    9 

42 

43 

3     0  11 

3  13 

1 

4  11     6 

7  18    8 

45  19    3 

43 

44 

3     3     3 

3  16 

3 

4  18  10 

7  16    9 

46  19    7 

44 

45 

3     5     9 

3  17 

6 

4  16     4 

8    0    7 

48    0    8 

45 

46 

3     8     5 

4     0 

0 

4  19     1 

8     4    6 

49    2    8 

46 

47 

3  11     5 

4     2 

8 

6    2     1 

8    8    8 

60    6    8 

47 

48 

3  14     8 

4     6 

8 

6    6     4 

8  18    2 

61     9     7 

48 

49 

3  18     1 

4     8 

9 

6    8     9 

8  17  11 

62  14     1 

49 

50 

4     1     7 

4  12 

1 

6  12     4 

9    2  10 

68  19    8 

50 

51 

4     5     6 

4  16 

6 

6  16     1 

9    7  11 

66    4    6 

51 

52 

4     9     5 

4  18 

10 

6  19  11 

9  18     1 

66    9     0 

52 

53 

4  13     5 

5    2 

5 

6    8  11 

9  18    8 

67  12  11 

53 

54 

4  17     8 

6     6 

3 

6    8    0 

10    8     6 

68  17     2 

54 

55     ' 

5     1  11 

6  10 

2 

6  12     1 

10    8    6 

60    0    8 

65 

[The  nsual  fum-fMrticijNiCiny  Rates  differ  little  from  these  Premioma.] 

*  A  p«frai>u  uf  80  may  secure  £1000  at  death,  by  a  yearly  payment,  &wii^  I<A,  of  £9) :  15a. 

This  Premium  would  generally  elsewhere  secure  MOO  only,  Instead  of  £lOoa 

OK,  he  may  secure  £1000  by  21  yearly  payments  of  £27 :  IS :  4 — Miip  Oiyufru  <iffaywunt  »/ter  ayr  50. 

t  At  age  40,  the  Premium  etcuing  atag*  dO,  is,  for  £1000,  £8S :  14 : S,— aboat  tlie  same  as  most  Olflcea 

re«iuire  during  the  whole  term  of  life.     Before  the  Premiums  have  eeaaed  the  Policy  will  have  shared  in 

at  leant  one  dirision  of  profits.    To  Profeaslonal  Men  and  others,  whoee  ineome  is  dependent  on  contlna- 

ance  uf  health,  the  limttc-d  payment  system  is  specially  recommended. 


BRANCH   OFFICES: 
BRISTOL,  81  OlATS  Strett 
OARDIFF,  19  High  Strett 
LEEDS.  Royal  Bxoluuig« 
LIVERPOOL,  25  Caitto  Strett 
DUBLIN    .    .    .    ie  COLLEGE  QREEN. 
LONDON    OFFICE:    17    KING   WILUAM    8TRBBT,    BLO. 


SOOW,  29  Si.  Vlnoent  Pi 
RDEEN.  26   Union  Street 
BE,  12  Victoria  Ohambers 
[;N0HAM.  95  Oolmore  P'OW 


MAM0HB8TBR.  10  Albeit  8q. 
MBWOABTLB.  S  Qaeen  Street 
MOmMOHAM,  27  VlotorU  St 
BELFAST,  23  Doaegall  Plaoei 


Printtdby  R.  ft  R.  CLAKK.  gdHOmvgh, 


Scottishprovident 

INSTITUTED        nC'''lTllTl/^ri     mcORPOBAIElJ 

8  7         llOLllUllUll       843 


I  N  this  oOCIKTV  arc  combined  the  advantages  of 

Mutual  Assurance  with  Moderate  Premiums. 
ThI'  premiums  are  so  moderate  that  an  Assur- 
ance of  ;^I200  or  _;^i25o  may  generally  be  secured 
from  the  first  for  the  yearly  payment  which  usually 
would  be  charged  (with  profits)  for  j^iooo  only — 
equivalent  toau  immediate  Bonus  of  201025  percent. 

The  WHOLE  PROFITS  go  to  the  Policyholders,  on  a 
system  at  once  safe  and  eqiiitable.^no  share  being  given  to 
those  by  whose  early  death  there  is  a  /i}ss.  Large  additions 
have  thus  been,  and  will  be,  made  to  the  policies  of  those  who 
participate,  notwithstanding  the  lowness  of  the  premiums. 

The  SURPLUS  at  last  Investigntion  was  £1,051,035,  which,  after 
reserving  one-third,  was  divided  among  9384  Policies  entitled  to  participtate. 
First  additions  (with  feivexceptions)  ranged  from  18  to  34  percent,according 
to  :^e  and  class.      Other  Policies  were  increased  in  all  50  to  So  ]ier  cent 

/fa/  ilu  lima!  hi\'lif  fnmiiiiiii  /vcii  eliargiJ.  iwt  only  TaoiiM  the  initial  asairann  have 
been  griater  but  the  bouiu  addilioiti  ivnuld  have  been  correspondin^y  larger. 

The  Accumulated  FUMDS  now  exceed  7a  I^ILLIONS. 

Their  Incre.\SE  during  lasi  Septennium  was  greater  than  in  any  niher  Office 
in  ilie  Kingdom — due  largely  to  systematic  economy  of  management,  ihe 
expenses  over  the  same  period  having  been  under  10  per  cent  of  premiums. 
Tlic  New  ABSUrances  for  17  years  have  exceeded  ONE  MILLION  annually. 


5  to  SUKRKNDEBS,  NON-FOBFEITURE,  LOANS  0\  POLICIES,  | 
OK  Claj.MS,  Frke  Residence,  &c.,  are  specially  liberal, 

REPORTS  wUhfuU  infonnalion  may  be  had  on  appHcalion.  i^coU 

HEAD  OFFICE  •■    No.  6  ST.  ANDREW  SQUARE,   EDINBUSGH.         ""*    mid 

LONDON  OFFICE  :    17  KING  ^WILLIAM  E 


r,  6y  different  modes  of  payment,  see  the 


"EXCELLEyT^OF  GRBXT  VALtTE."  £,«««<,  June  15.  1R89. 
CONCENTRATED 


COLD  KED&LS 


WO  D10EBTIV8 
IFFORT. 


PEPTONIZED 
COCOA 
*"°  MILK. 

SAVOSY  &  MOORE'IoNDOM. 


U-td. 

OHTAIHABtK 

EVERTWiUfU. 

TuiTBATCLLEKS 


IGMtlO 


Fry 

Un»urpM«&dfor  PORITT, 
80LUBlLiryaDdEXCSLI.BKCE. 


Et«r  uutad  Coaon  that  I 


'q  pure 

O    CONCENTRATED 

Cocoa 


OOLD 
MEDALS, 
1S<)4  S6 


PANCREATIC    EMULSION 

THE  ESSENTIAL  NUTRIMENT  IN 
CONSUMPTION,  WASTING,  &a 

SAVORY    &    MOORE,    LONDON. 

In  bottles.  2s.  Gd..  4s.  Gi.  &  8a.  e&oh.  obtalnftblo  of  Chcanigtt  ereryvfanra. 


fethamsbeithams'a^ 


plycerine  ^^^^moif 

I  &  Gucumber  l"^j^:^I-J:V!B 


FOR  PRESeRVIHC  THE  SKIM